


Ends Of The Earth

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, False Accusations, House renovations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rescue Missions, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6955807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run for a crime he technically didn't commit, ex-burglar Porthos holes up in the burnt out shell of an old manor house, assuming it to be abandoned. When the owner unexpectedly returns Porthos expects to be evicted, but Athos has a somewhat fluid relationship with the law himself, and takes Porthos on. Initially this is just to renovate the house, but when Athos goes missing on a mission, it may be that Porthos is the only one who can help him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The dawn chorus was in full voice as Athos walked slowly along the bridle path. The sky was clear, gradually brightening from a pink sunrise to a pale blue, and after months of smoke and noise and exhaustion, the sharp, clean air was like a tonic. The trees were coming into leaf overhead, forming a hazy green tunnel, and the hedgerows were studded with the yellow gleam of primroses.

Athos had never really been one to take time out to appreciate the wonders of nature, but this morning he found he was glad he'd approached the house from this direction, rather than heading directly up the drive.

And there was the house, just coming into view. Athos paused at the break in the treeline, staring down at the manor. Charred, blackened roof trusses stuck up from crumbling stonework like the ribcage of some giant beast. He sighed, remembering the night it had gone up. He could practically see the smoke still rising into the morning air.

No. Wait. There was smoke rising. 

Athos frowned, staring down at the west wing, where a thin line of smoke was very definitely rising from the kitchen chimney. That part of the house was the most intact, but there shouldn't have been anyone in it. There shouldn't be anyone here at all.

Silently, Athos moved back behind the treeline and made for another footpath he knew of that would take him down to the house between two hedges, out of sight. Whoever was in residence wasn't necessarily someone who wished him ill, but he hadn't stayed alive this long in his line of work without taking precautions.

Reaching the house, Athos let himself in at the garden door and moved soundlessly up the stone-flagged passage. Now he was inside he could smell toast and his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since the day before. He'd been travelling most of the night, eager to reach home, such as it was. The fact that someone appeared to have beaten him to it made him quietly furious, and he drew a handgun from the holster under his jacket.

He was edging towards the kitchen door. There was a light on and he assumed whoever was intruding in his house was inside, but then the sound of a toilet flushing came from close at hand and Athos spun round, bringing the gun up to cover the door to the cloakroom.

It swung open to reveal a man Athos had never seen before in his life. Tall, muscular, dark-skinned, and with a curly beard and hair that was edging out of bushy and into unkempt, he had a slice of toast in one hand, and was trying to do up his trousers with the other.

When he looked up and saw Athos holding a gun on him, several levels of confused panic passed across his face, as he tried to cope with trousers and toast at the same time his brain was screaming instructions at him to put his hands up.

In the end he jammed the toast into his mouth and raised his hands. Unfortunately this meant his jeans promptly fell down around his ankles, revealing a natty pair of black boxer shorts with red hearts all over them. 

Athos stared at him. "Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?"

The intruder tried to answer, staring at him in wide-eyed alarm and trying to mumble something through the toast held between his teeth. He made a move to take it out, then remembered the gun and hesitated.

Athos gestured irritably and he gingerly removed the toast. 

"My name's Porthos. I just needed somewhere to stay. I didn't think anyone lived here."

"You're trespassing." Athos looked him over critically. He certainly didn't look overly dangerous, but Athos wasn't taking any chances.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone would mind. I've been here for weeks, nobody's been near the place."

"Didn't you see the signs?" There'd been large keep out signs all over the main gate. Athos had put them there himself.

"Well, yeah." Porthos looked sheepish. "I just hoped that meant I'd have the place to meself. Look, can I pull my trousers up?"

"No." Athos was still holding the gun on him, although rapidly coming to the conclusion he was in no danger. "I still don't know who you are or what you're doing here. Where are you from? You're not from round here."

"Oi!" Porthos looked indignant. "Don't be fucking racist."

Athos gave him an exasperated look. "I meant, you're not local. Or I'd know you. I wasn't asking for your genealogy. You could be from Croydon for all I care."

"Croydon!" Porthos looked more insulted than ever. Athos smirked.

"Well forgive me for being judgemental, but you don't exactly scream Primrose Hill. Also, who the fuck takes their breakfast into the toilet?"

Porthos looked at the toast in his hand and shrugged. "Plenty of people," he said defensively. 

"Name six." Athos sighed, and lowered the gun. "Oh for God's sake, do up your trousers."

Porthos stuffed the toast back into his mouth and pulled his jeans up hastily, giving Athos a wary nod of gratitude once they were firmly zipped and buckled. 

They stared at each other, and Porthos fidgeted nervously. "So now what?"

Athos considered. "Now? You make me some of that toast." He raised the gun again. "But first of all you're washing your fucking hands."

The kitchen was warm and cosy, and Athos seated himself at the table, keeping a close eye on Porthos while he moved around toasting a couple of slices cut from a fresh loaf. There was no electricity in the burnt out building, but Porthos seemed to have got the range working. 

"You still haven't told me who you are."

Porthos looked shifty. "Yeah I did."

"Porthos." Athos gave a sceptical snort. "Surname?"

Porthos hesitated. "Du Vallon." He glanced at the gun lying near Athos' hand on the table, and chewed his lower lip. "So who are you?"

"Athos." 

"I've never heard of anyone being called Athos before."

"No? Well I've never heard of anyone called Porthos," Athos pointed out dryly.

"Yeah, well. Fair point." Porthos turned hastily back to the toast. "You want jam?"

"Oh. Yes, please. Thank you." Athos had taken his phone out and was tapping something in. Porthos warily took a seat opposite, and poured them both a cup of tea.

Athos took an absent-minded bite of his toast, and then nodded with approving surprise. 

"Is this bread home-made?"

"Yeah." Porthos managed a smile. "It's not as hard as people think."

"It's good." 

"Thank you." Porthos covertly studied Athos while he was preoccupied with his phone. He was good looking in a stern sort of way, but there were dark shadows under his eyes. Bruises, too, Porthos realised, catching sight of a welt on Athos' wrist where his sleeve had slipped back. It almost looked like he'd been manacled.

"So what happened to the house?" Porthos ventured, half worried that he was going to be accused of setting fire to it, although Athos hadn't seemed surprised at its condition. What kind of man lived in a burnt out ruin, he wondered.

"I got divorced," Athos said, still scrolling through his phone.

"And?"

"It didn't go well." Athos looked up, and frowned. "Curious."

"What is?"

"I can't find any mention of a Porthos du Vallon. I can, however, find an entry for an Isaac du Vallon, currently on the wanted list for a number of crimes, including - " he scrolled again. "Armed robbery, handling stolen goods, breaking and entering, and - oh dear. Manslaughter? Oh Porthos." He shook his head reprovingly, and Porthos sat up, hot with alarm and indignation.

"It wasn't me! I didn't do it!" 

Athos just slipped his phone back into his pocket and picked up the second slice of toast. Porthos wondered what the hell kind of databases he had that kind of access to, to find him that quickly. Was he police? But police didn't go waving guns around on the whole, not in this country. He belatedly realised Athos was waiting for him to expand on his outburst, and sighed.

"We were turning over a warehouse," he admitted, picking up his mug of tea again on the grounds Athos at least hadn't made any move to arrest him. "There wasn't supposed to be anyone there, but they must have changed the roster at the last minute. Suddenly there's this old security guy coming at us, he must have been seventy if he was a day. Well Charon went and twatted him one, didn't he? He swore he only meant to knock him out, but suddenly we've got a corpse on our hands, and the filth are pulling up outside."

"So you made a run for it," Athos suggested neutrally.

"Yeah. And I got away too. Charon wasn't so lucky, they nicked him half a mile down the road." Porthos sighed gloomily. "As far as I can tell he squealed like a stuck pig in return for a lenient sentence. Except he wasn't going to get that if he was going down for murder, was he, so he told them it was me."

"You could have handed yourself in. Told them otherwise. There must have been forensic evidence to support it, at worst it would have been your word against his," Athos said.

Porthos rested his chin in his hand and gave Athos rueful eyes. "Except his testimony put away a whole lot of other people further up the food chain. Important people. If I came along and suggested he'd been lying about any part of it, the whole thing'd unravel. They're not going to be interested in the truth, trust me."

"So you're hiding out here," Athos concluded.

"Yeah."

"And making your own bread, to avoid using your bank card or being seen in the shops too often," Athos guessed. "How very enterprising." He looked thoughtful. "How long before your money runs out?"

"About another week before I need to start learning how to skin a rabbit," Porthos said gloomily.

Athos smiled. "It's not as hard as people think, although you do tend to need more than one to fill you up."

Porthos laughed in surprise. "Do you believe me then?" he asked curiously.

"Yes. I think so." Athos considered him shrewdly. "You don't strike me as a killer."

"Known many have you?" Porthos asked sarcastically, but Athos just looked at him, and he suddenly remembered there was a gun on the table. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Does it matter?" Athos sighed, leaning back in the chair and stifling a yawn. 

"Suppose not." Porthos watched Athos yawning again, and realised he was on the verge of exhaustion. "You look knackered."

"Thank you," said Athos dryly. "It's been rather a long night."

"Why don't you grab some sleep?" Porthos suggested. "Do you need a blanket or something?"

Athos looked surprised by the offer, then smiled. "Angling for an invitation to stay?"

Porthos looked embarrassed. "That obvious, huh?"

"Not overly subtle," Athos smiled. "And thank you, but I have a sleeping bag." He hesitated, clearly torn between the idea of sleep and the fact that it would leave him defenceless in the company of a comparative stranger.

"I promise I'm harmless," said Porthos, trying and mostly failing to look it. "I just need a place to lie low for a bit?" Clinging to the fact that Athos hadn't seemed to be remotely bothered by his criminal record. 

"You can't hide here forever," Athos pointed out, then sighed. "Oh alright. If you don't mind, I will. I need to sleep before I drop." He paused. "Have you made somewhere up as a bedroom?"

"Yeah. Through here." Porthos lead him into what had once been the scullery. There was an old mattress on the floor, with a sleeping bag and thick woollen blanket, a duffel coat, and a worn but comfortable looking pillow.

"It's not much, but you're welcome to it," Porthos offered. "I just got up, so you won't have to share."

Athos looked amused. "Thank you. And trust me, it looks wonderful. I've been sleeping on the ground for the last couple of months, and I'd been planning on bedding down in one of the cellars, if none of the rooms were intact. 

Porthos looked startled. "Didn't even know there were cellars," he said, making a face at the thought of sleeping underground in the dark with probable spiders. 

"The entrance may have been blocked off," Athos conceded. "This whole place is a deathtrap."

"This bit seems alright," Porthos said. "You get some sleep, eh? I'll be out here, looking up recipes for rabbit."

When he'd gone out again Athos closed the door and dropped his bag next to the mattress, sitting down and trying not to groan as various aches and pains made themselves known. Still not a hundred percent sure of Porthos, he decided against undressing, settling for pulling off his boots and his jacket. He lay down on top of Porthos' sleeping bag, pulled his own over him like a blanket, slipped the gun under the pillow, and was asleep within minutes.

\--

"Athos? Athos!" Porthos reached out hesitantly to wake him. His hand had barely touched the man's shoulder when suddenly he was sitting up and there was a gun in Porthos' face.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Porthos threw himself backwards, sprawling across the floor. "It's me, it's me!"

Athos blinked at him, disorientated and shaking slightly - although the hand with the gun was perfectly steady Porthos noticed.

"What are you doing in here?" Athos demanded suspiciously.

"You were having a nightmare," Porthos said. "I thought you might want waking up."

Athos stared at him, then to Porthos' relief, lowered the gun.

"Sorry. Was I shouting?" Athos rubbed his face, fingers rasping over stubble.

"More whimpering really," Porthos told him, and Athos gave a pained laugh.

"How very manly." He slipped the gun back under the pillow, and Porthos relaxed.

"Are you hungry? I made some lunch if you want some?"

"Thank you." Athos sat up, stretching his shoulders. "How long have I been asleep?"

"About five hours. It'll keep, if you want to grab a bit more?"

"No, I'm fine." Athos pushed back the sleeping bag and yawned. "Is the water still connected here?" he asked, recalling the toilet flushing earlier.

"Yeah. Only cold though. If you want to wash I can heat you some up?"

"That's very kind of you."

"Trying to make a good impression," Porthos admitted.

Athos gave him a faint smile. "Working so far."

\--

Half an hour later Athos reappeared in the kitchen, looking rather more awake and somewhat neater of beard. He'd left his jacket on the bed but was wearing his shoulder holster, and Porthos eyed the gun nervously as he handed Athos a bowl of stew.

"Rabbit?" Athos guessed, and Porthos laughed.

"Bean, mostly. It fills you up but I confess it makes you fart something chronic."

Athos smiled. "If that's the worst thing I have to worry about, I'll take it. Where I've been for the last few months the biggest danger from the food was dysentery."

Porthos looked alarmed. "Where were you, the Middle Ages?"

"Not far off." Athos tried the stew and nodded. "This is good. You're quite the chef."

"Had plenty of time to practice while I've been stuck out here," Porthos admitted, putting a pot of tea down on the table between them and pulling up a chair.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, dipping chunks of the bread into the bowls of stew, and afterwards sat back with a second mug of tea.

"Where do you get the milk?" Athos asked idly. "If you're avoiding the shops?"

"There's a farm stall just down the road," Porthos told him. "In the hedge. I get milk and eggs and veg and stuff there. Put the money in the honesty box. Means I don't have to see anyone."

Athos gave a quiet laugh, and Porthos frowned at him. "What?"

"Nothing." Athos smiled into his mug. "Just - you're wanted for armed robbery, but you put money in a rural honesty box."

"Well - yeah." Porthos looked affronted. "That'd be wrong, wouldn't it, not to? That'd be like - the bad kind of stealing."

"The bad kind of stealing," Athos repeated with a straight face, and Porthos huffed at him in embarrassed confusion.

"You know what I mean."

Athos nodded. "I do know what you mean," he agreed peaceably.

"I'm not saying there's a good stealing," Porthos added defensively. "Just - "

"Big corporations, people with insurance - not so bad?" Athos guessed, and Porthos nodded.

"That sort of thing, yeah. And for the record, it wasn't armed robbery, it wasn't a real gun. It was a replica."

"Still liable to get you shot if the police think it's real," Athos pointed out, and Porthos sighed.

"Yeah, I know." He looked at Athos curiously. "You're not police then?"

"No."

"Army?" Porthos guessed.

"At one point."

"What then? Covert ops, sort of thing?"

"Sort of thing," Athos agreed, and Porthos frowned at him.

"Don't give much away, do you?"

Athos smiled at him. “Well I could tell you, but then - etcetera, etcetera."

Porthos snorted with laughter. "Fair enough." He stared thoughtfully at Athos' gun. "You ever kill anyone? Really?"

Athos hesitated. "Yes."

"More than one?"

"Yes."

Porthos' eyes widened. "How many?"

Another pause. Porthos had the horrible feeling he was counting.

"Seventeen."

"Christ." Porthos stared at him, then frowned. "That's very specific."

"It's the sort of thing you remember," Athos said dryly.

"Do they haunt you?" Porthos ventured, after Athos had been staring into his tea for some time without speaking.

Athos looked up again, surprised. "No. I am very clear in my mind that every one of them thoroughly deserved it."

"Then what gives you nightmares?"

For the first time, Athos looked shaken. "The ones I couldn't save," he said quietly.

Porthos didn't know what to say to that, but Athos set down his mug and pushed it away. "Is there anything to drink?"

"Alcohol you mean? I've got a few cans of lager?"

Athos made a face. "Mmmn. Let's see if we can do better than that, shall we?" He went over to a section of pine panelling and to Porthos' surprise flipped open a hidden panel revealing several rows of nails hammered into the wall behind, some with keys hanging from them.

Athos picked one, examined it, then slipped it into his pocket. "Do you have a torch?" he asked. Porthos nodded. "Could I borrow it?"

Full of curiosity, Porthos followed Athos deeper into the house. This entailed a certain amount of climbing over and beneath charred and fallen beams and masonry, but Athos seemed to know where he was going.

Eventually they reached the spot Athos had been making for, and after surveying the wreckage critically he heaved a sheet of panelling away to reveal a door which he proceeded to unlock with the key, kicking debris away so he could pull it open. A set of steps lead down, and Porthos peered over his shoulder with interest.

"Is this the bat cave?"

Athos smirked. "Better than that. It's the wine cellar. I'm hoping it's intact."

He went down the steps, shining the torch ahead of him, and Porthos followed carefully. In the room below were several bottle racks, and Athos regarded them with a certain satisfaction.

"Were you really going to sleep down here?" Porthos asked, looking around them dubiously.

"What's wrong with it?" Athos asked. "It's dry, secure, and the refreshment opportunities are excellent." He drew a bottle out of the rack and brushed dust from the label.

"I don't like spiders," Porthos admitted, ducking sharply as a cobweb brushed across his face.

"Don't worry, I expect the rats have eaten them all," Athos said vaguely, pulling out a second bottle.

Porthos snorted. "Rats don't bother me," he said. "Plenty of them around while I was growing up."

Athos looked over at him. "One of the strange things both ends of the social spectrum have in common," he remarked with a smile. "A tolerance for rodents in their housing."

"You're not a lord or something are you?" Porthos asked suspiciously.

"Here, take these," Athos said, thrusting two bottles of wine into his hands and turning away to select two more without, Porthos noted, answering his question.

Loaded with bottles, they made their way back up the steps, and Athos locked the door again. Porthos was relieved to be out of the cellar, and followed him thankfully back to the kitchen where they uncorked the first bottle and settled into chairs beside the warm range.

After a while Porthos took out his phone and started looking for details on the history of the house. He might not have access to whatever resources Athos did, but he figured he could probably get what he wanted with a bit of strategic googling.

"They can track you using that you know," Athos said conversationally.

Porthos looked up. "It's not in my own name," he retorted. "I'm not quite as stupid as I look."

"Well, that's a relief."

Porthos glared at him. "You know what I've got here? Newspaper article from a couple of years ago, about this place going up in flames. Says it was owned by one Olivier de la Fère."

Athos looked at him impassively. "And?"

"Not from round here then, are you?" Porthos jibed with a certain satisfaction. "Not with a name like that."

Athos conceded a smile. "Very old Norman family," he murmured. "Been around these parts for generations."

With an unspoken truce in place on the thorny subject of names and identity, they embarked on a second glass.

"So are you staying long?" Porthos asked.

Athos raised his eyebrows. "Trying to get rid of me already?"

"Just making conversation."

"I'm between jobs."

"Wouldn't you have been more comfortable in a hotel or something?" Porthos frowned.

"I wanted to drop out of sight for a while," Athos admitted. "Lay low for a bit."

"You and me both," Porthos murmured, and they shared a slight smile.

When they opened the second bottle, Porthos broached something that he'd been turning over in his mind for some time.

"I've been thinking."

Athos looked up. "And there was me thinking that burning smell was just the house."

Porthos made a face at him. "I'm serious. When you go away again - back to work or whatever - you could do with someone here to keep an eye on the place for you, right?"

"Keep out trespassers you mean?" Athos said wryly, and Porthos frowned.

"Well. Yeah. Exactly. And generally look after the place. Start cleaning up a little maybe." Porthos thought about the bat cave wine cellar and brightened. "I could be your Alfred."

Athos snorted. "Why do I get the feeling that if _I'd_ suggested you might like to be my butler, you'd have accused me of being racist again?"

"Because it bloody would have been," Porthos shot back. "Anyway, I was thinking less butler, more - sidekick."

"I hate to disappoint you but I am very much not a superhero," Athos sighed gloomily.

"You're not a supervillain are you?" Porthos checked, and was pleased when Athos laughed.

"No. At least, I hope not. I try to stay on the side of the angels. However questionable my methods may occasionally be."

"So how about it?" Porthos urged, deciding that if Athos really was some kind of government-sanctioned assassin it was probably best if he didn't ask too many questions.

Athos regarded him silently for a while. "I'll think about it," he conceded. "I mean - I have only just met you."

"Don't you trust me?" Porthos poured Athos more wine and grinned at him.

"I don't trust anyone."

"That's no way to live."

"Says the man hiding from the law with the prospect of rabbit kebab in his immediate future."

Porthos looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, well my life hasn't exactly worked out the way I pictured it," he muttered. "But then, there weren't a whole lot of options for me, growing up."

"Could have joined the army?" Athos suggested. "Lot of scope there."

"Charon had all these big plans for us," Porthos sighed.

"Croydon mafia?"

Porthos glared at him, then gave a reluctant laugh. "Brixton, if you must know. But we was going places."

"Jail, by the sounds of it."

"Piss off." Porthos kicked off his shoes and propped his feet up on the warm door of the old cast iron range. "We looked out for each other, you know? Ever since we was kids," he added more softly.

"Until it came to the crunch," Athos reminded him, and then winced at his unfortunate choice of words.

"Yeah." Porthos looked sad, and Athos leaned over and topped up his glass.

"Oh, go on then," he sighed. "You can stay."

"Do you mean that?" Porthos stared at him eagerly, not quite daring to hope.

Athos shrugged. "Why not?" He studied Porthos over the rim of his glass. "I suppose you'll want paying."

This was more than Porthos had dared hope for. "Well - that would be - I mean, if you're sure?" he stammered. "Enough to keep body and soul together would be very welcome."

Athos considered him silently for a while, then seemed to come to a decision. "If you meant what you said about clearing the place up - I could let you have something for that I suppose."

Porthos agreed immediately, and for a while they discussed what might be done with the ruined house. Most of the main block was beyond salvage, but the wing they were in was largely intact. It had lost its roof, and suffered smoke and water damage, but structurally it could probably be made habitable again.

"Did you grow up here?" Porthos asked, as they shared out the rest of the stew for their supper.

"Yes." Athos sighed. I suppose that's why I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it. I should really have sold it off, but I couldn't bear to."

It revealed a streak of sentiment hitherto unguessed at, and made Athos seem a little more human. Porthos had been trying to puzzle him out, and so far Athos had come across as remote and rather cold.

By the time they'd drunk all four bottles that they'd brought up from the cellar, Porthos was feeling distinctly pissed. Athos, to his annoyance, looked barely affected.

"Where does a little thing like you put it all?" Porthos frowned.

"Little?" Athos sounded indignant, but also mildly amused. "I'm not little. I'm six foot."

Porthos gave him a toothy grin. "You're little compared to me." He yawned. "Want to toss for who gets the mattress?" It was technically Athos' mattress, Porthos had dragged it down from one of the upper floors. He hoped Athos wouldn't accuse him of looting.

"I don't mind sharing?" Athos made the suggestion quite off-handedly, but Porthos gave him a hard stare. Athos caught the look, and smiled faintly. "I promise your virtue is safe with me."

Porthos cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Yeah, alright. Why not?" He yawned again. He wasn't used to drinking wine, certainly nothing as good as this had clearly been. "I'm guessing we've not been drinking six quid bottles from Tesco?" he smirked, nudging one of the empty bottles lying by his foot, so that it rolled clanking across the floor.

"I'd guess closer to sixty," Athos said with his customary tone of indifference, but Porthos looked startled.

"Jesus. Have we just drunk - " he tried to do the maths in his head, but was too pissed.

"Two hundred and forty quid's worth of wine?" Athos supplied. "Probably." He shrugged. "It's meant to be drunk. Don't see the point of hoarding it."

Porthos opened his mouth to say thank Athos for his generosity, but was ambushed by another yawn. And he suspected in any case that it was more that Athos simply didn't care.

"You're a strange man," he said decidedly, toasting Athos with the dregs in his glass. "But I'm not complaining."

Athos gave him another one of his half-smiles, and Porthos reflected that he'd have given a lot to know what was going on behind those eyes.

\--

By the time Athos was ready for bed Porthos was already fast asleep and snoring, sprawled untidily on his back as if he'd simply toppled there from a standing position. Athos considered him for a moment, then gently repositioned Porthos' outflung arm to give himself enough space to join him.

Porthos huffed and snorted in his sleep, but didn't wake. Athos zipped himself into his sleeping bag, shuffled onto the narrow strip of mattress available, and turned off the battery lantern that had been lighting the room.

He lay there in the dark, reflecting on the unexpected developments of the day. He hadn't anticipated finding his home occupied, and certainly not by someone like Porthos, but in a strange sort of way Athos found he didn't mind. It would have been a melancholy homecoming had the place been deserted, and however blasé he'd been earlier, sleeping in the cellar would have been deeply unpleasant.

Athos turned onto his side, the uncurtained window a paler square in the darkness. He remembered lying in the fields beyond as a boy, staring up at the stars and marvelling at how big the universe was. Now he was in his thirties, and the world sometimes felt depressingly small. He'd been to some of the remotest corners of it, and seen some of the worst things that human beings were capable of doing to each other. He liked to think in his own small way he was trying to make a difference, but sometimes his few and hard-won results hardly felt enough to keep him going.

The stone-floored room was stark and unheated, but he'd slept in worse places and beside him Porthos was radiating warmth. Athos felt himself sliding gradually into sleep.

\--

Athos struggled out of unsettled dreams, to find himself pinned down. Fighting off a moment of panic he finally managed to force open gluey eyes and remember where he was. Home. Safe.

At some point in the night Porthos had rolled over and thrown an arm around him, which accounted for the fact he was currently pinioned. Athos took a long breath and let it out slowly, consciously relaxing again. Porthos himself was still fast asleep; the change in position had seemingly put paid to his snoring and he was now snuffling quietly against the back of Athos' neck.

It had been a very long time indeed since Athos had last woken up with anyone's arm round him, and the thought was like a fleeting pain in his soul. He lay there quietly, allowing himself to enjoy the cosy proximity of the other man and feeling mildly guilty about it. It wasn't sexual, he told himself. Porthos was just an unwitting source of comfort to his ragged nerves.

He could tell the moment Porthos woke up. The sudden intake of breath and the way he went rigid from head to toe. With infinite care, Porthos gingerly removed his arm and rolled away with a muted sigh of relief.

Athos feigned sleep, having no wish to embarrass Porthos, or for that matter raise the question of why he hadn't moved away himself. He kept his eyes closed as Porthos climbed off the mattress and shuffled out into the kitchen, only opening them again after the click of the door signalled he was now alone. Athos turned onto his back with a sigh and stared blankly at the ceiling.

\--

Dressed and washed, they breakfasted together in near silence, communicating via a series of occasional grunts and gestures that sufficed to indicate who wanted the jam, and whether more tea was needed. Athos would have been the first to admit he wasn't at his best in the mornings, and Porthos seemed to be quite badly hungover, so both men were grateful to discover no taxing attempts at conversation were required.

"So how long d'you reckon you'll be around for?" Porthos ventured some time later, when they were on their second pot of tea and both feeling marginally more human. "Till they give you another job?"

Athos smirked at him. "You _are_ trying to get rid of me!"

"No." Porthos looked embarrassed. "Just wondered."

Athos shrugged. "I go where I'm needed, when I'm needed. That might be weeks from now, it might be only days."

"Not much of a rest, if that's the case," Porthos observed, thinking Athos looked tired and frazzled. His hands tended to move restlessly, fingers twining together or tracing the outlines of any objects lying within reach. Porthos wondered if he knew he was doing it.

"I like to keep busy," Athos said. "Too much time for reflection isn't necessarily a good thing."

"Had plenty of time to reflect since I've been stuck out here," Porthos admitted. 

"And you've decided to turn over a new leaf?" Athos smiled.

"I wish." Porthos sighed. "But who's going to employ me with my record? Only work I'll be able to get is going to be from those who don't ask too many questions. And there's generally a reason for that."

"I thought you were going to do up my house for me?" Athos murmured.

Porthos looked at him. "To be honest, I thought you might have changed your mind, having slept on it." He smiled slightly. "No man should be held to a promise made while he's drunk."

"I wasn't drunk," Athos said mildly. "And the offer is still there if you want it."

"Of course I do!" Porthos looked awkward for a moment, then honesty finally compelled him to admit - "But what do I know about renovating houses? Bugger all."

"Then find someone who does," Athos said simply.

\--

Two days passed. Whilst not exactly yet friends, they regarded each other with a wary interest, like two cats forced to share a territory. Athos would disappear for hours at a time, leading to Porthos to wonder what he was up to until he came across him fast asleep in the spring sunshine, curled into a bend in the hedge. He'd been vaguely conscious that Athos was a restless sleeper, but out here in the sunlight he finally looked peaceful, and Porthos tiptoed away again without disturbing him.

They'd also spent quite a bit of time together, going over what might be done to the house. Carefully exploring the upper rooms, on the first day they'd come across the mostly complete remains of another bed. Athos had made a half-hearted suggestion that they should take the mattress downstairs, conscious that Porthos might not like sharing. Porthos though, had prodded the mattress dubiously with the toe of his boot and declared it was probably full of mice, and the matter had been dropped.

Wandering around the place, re-familiarising himself with its nooks and crannies, Athos discovered a battered old white van parked at the back of the log store.

"Is that your van out back?" he asked Porthos when their solo orbits brought them back together again for lunch. 

"Yeah, don't work though," Porthos said gloomily. "The battery's flat, and there's no electricity out here. Why, did you want to go somewhere?"

"I was thinking of going to stock up on some groceries," Athos said. "I'm eating all your food, I should replace it. There's a shop in the village though, I'll walk down this afternoon."

True to his word he reappeared later with rucksack and carrier bags bulging with groceries, and Porthos felt guilty. 

"Sorry, I should have come with you. I just worry that I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb round here."

"Don't worry about it." Athos gave him a sideways glance, and a small smile. "And it's not quite the back of beyond you seem to think it is round here. I'm ninety percent sure they wouldn't lynch you."

Porthos threw the dishcloth at him, which hit Athos full in the face, and Athos instinctively reacted by hurling back what he was holding in his hand. Unfortunately this was a jam tart he'd just taken out of the box and it slapped firmly against Porthos' cheek and stuck there for a second before sliding stickily to the ground.

They stared at each other for a second in affronted surprise, and then both burst out laughing. Athos used the dishcloth to wipe the jam off Porthos' face, and Porthos flicked the soap suds out of Athos' hair. 

The amused truce was interrupted by the chirruping of Athos' phone, and he pulled it out of his pocket with a frown. Porthos just had time to glimpse the display before Athos picked up. 

_Aramis_.

"Hey." Athos turned slightly away, and Porthos bent down to clear up the remains of the jam tart, telling himself he was just being tidy and absolutely not using it as an excuse for eavesdropping. Not that Athos' side of the conversation was exactly illuminating.

"No, you're okay, go ahead." Athos listened for quite a while, saying nothing but the occasional "uh huh", then with an apologetic glance at Porthos let himself out the back door and went to stand outside to carry on his conversation.

When he came back in, Porthos gave him a rueful smile. "Somebody sent up the bat-signal, right?" 

Athos nodded. "Sorry. I have to go."

"Right now?" Porthos was startled. 

"Yes. I need to be in London by tonight. I'll cut across the fields to Fontwell, I can pick up the branchline from there." Athos disappeared into the back room to pack his things, and Porthos stared disconsolately at the closed door. He'd started to rather enjoy having company.

When Athos emerged a while later Porthos silently handed him a bag of food. He'd made him a sandwich and put in an apple and two of the jam tarts. Athos looked startled, then smiled. 

"Thank you. You didn't have to do that." 

"I'm guessing it's lesson one in butler school," Porthos grinned. "Not letting your employer go hungry."

Athos took it gratefully. "I'll be in touch, about arranging the money," he said. 

"How do I contact you?" Porthos asked. "If I've got questions or stuff?"

"You don't," Athos said regretfully. "I mean - you can't." He patted Porthos briskly on the arm. "You'll be fine. I have every confidence in you." 

"Well - when will you be back?" Porthos asked, following Athos outside.

"Honestly? I don't know. Maybe not for a while." Athos stowed the food in his rucksack and settled it on his shoulders. "Thank you, for everything."

"Athos!"

Athos turned back enquiringly, and Porthos flushed. "Be careful." 

Athos gave him a slight nod. "Always."

"Bye then."

This time there was a smile. "Au revoir." Athos touched his finger to his temple in a simple salute, and then he was gone, striding down the path towards the far woods, brisk but unhurried.

Porthos stood and watched him recede into the distance. He'd decided that Athos wasn't going to look back, but as he reached the treeline the tiny figure paused and turned back towards the house. Porthos immediately felt a hot flush of embarrassment, knowing he'd be quite visible against the pale stone walls, and Athos would know he'd been watching him all this time.

To his surprise, Athos raised a hand in farewell and Porthos waved back instinctively. Then Athos turned, and was lost from view between the trees.

\--

For days, Porthos heard nothing. He was starting to think Athos had changed his mind, although this conclusion was tempered both by the worry that something had happened to him, and also by the more remote possibility that Athos was in fact some kind of con-man, and that everything he'd told Porthos had been utter bollocks. 

The argument against the latter case mostly lay with Athos having known where the key to the cellar was kept, although technically that still didn't prove it was actually his house. Porthos had spent a good ten minutes trying to re-open the hidden panel before he managed to hit the right spot, and he was gratified to discover Athos had replaced the cellar key on its hook. Not that he had any great craving for a bottle of wine, but it showed a level of trust on Athos' part that Porthos wasn't about to clear the place out.

A week passed with no news. Porthos had given Athos his phone number, only realising after the man had gone that Athos had contrived not to give his own in return. 

One morning Porthos was lingering over a mug of tea and putting off the moment when he'd have to go and lug more fuel in from the woodshed when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a motorbike. At first he assumed it must be coming from the road, until it occurred to him that the drive was so long and winding that he'd never noticed any passing traffic noise the whole time he'd been here.

Cautiously, Porthos got up and peered out of the window. Sure enough a motorcyclist was approaching up the drive, pulling up before the house in a showy spray of gravel. 

Porthos' first thought - hope, even - was that the unidentified rider was Athos, although the ostentatious arrival somehow suggested not. The rider pulled off their helmet and for a second Porthos thought it was a woman as long hair tumbled out, but then they turned towards the house and he realised it was a slim young man. 

Having been essentially hiding out here, Porthos' first instinct was to keep out of sight, until he remembered that he was now also supposed to be guarding the place against intruders. He steeled himself, and strode out to accost the new arrival.

From the glimpse he'd caught from the kitchen window Porthos had thought the boy barely more than a teenager, but close up he guessed mid-twenties. He was staring up at the ruined house with an open curiosity that put Porthos' back up.

"Can I help you?" he asked gruffly.

"You Porthos?"

Porthos relaxed a fraction. Not the police then. "Yeah."

The boy reached into his pannier and drew out a stiff-backed buff envelope, and held it out. "For you," he said deliberately, when Porthos made no move to take it.

"From Athos?" Porthos realised it had to be, finally accepting the envelope, and wondering if it was money. "Do I need to sign for it or anything?"

This suggestion earned him a scathing look and he cleared his throat. "No. Right. Er - thanks. Did he say anything?"

The boy gave him an odd look, then shrugged. "Only for me to see that you got it." He put his helmet back on and straddled the bike, clearly intending to be off as quickly as he'd come, and Porthos found himself scrabbling to hold on to this one link with Athos.

"Hang about - look I don't even know your name. Is - is Athos alright?"

"Far as I know." Dark eyes considered him frankly. "Inquisitive, aren't you?" 

Porthos bristled. "Sod off then."

This actually earned him a grin. "My name's d'Artagnan. And I'll thank you not to tell Athos I told you." With that he flipped the visor down and kicked the bike into life, roaring away in another spray of gravel that had Porthos leaping backwards out of the way and cursing.

"Little shit." He watched the bike disappear down the drive and then frowned at the envelope in his hand. There was nothing written on the outside, other than a 'private and confidential' watermark in red ink.

Porthos took it inside and made another cup of tea before sitting down at the table with it and prising it open. To his surprise three smaller envelopes fell out, all blank and all sealed.

Selecting one at random Porthos opened it with a table knife. By this stage he wouldn't have been surprised to encounter an even smaller envelope, but inside was a folded sheet of paper. He drew it out carefully. To his surprise it was a letter giving formal written authority to Porthos du Vallon to make such changes to the structure and fabric of the house and grounds as he saw fit, and granting him tenancy until further notice. It was signed Olivier de la Fère. 

He read it three times in increasing surprise, and wondered distantly if the annoying young man on the motor bike knew Athos' real name - and for that matter, whether d'Artagnan had been his. It seemed rather unlikely. What had been the third odd name he'd glimpsed on Athos' phone - Aramis? Were these Athos' friends, colleagues, brothers in arms? Porthos found he wished he'd taken the opportunity to question Athos more about what he did when he'd had the chance.

Lost in a reverie, Porthos suddenly realised there were still two envelopes to go. Neither looked full enough to contain money, and Porthos had the thought that it was all very well being given permission to work on the house, but without any accompanying funds it wasn't going to happen. In fact, without money soon he'd be forced to leave here entirely.

One of the remaining envelopes had something stiff inside, and Porthos opened this one first. If the letter of tenancy and delegated authority had surprised him, this left him with an open mouth. It was a bank card and account details in the name of Porthos du Vallon. 

Hurriedly he ripped open the third and final envelope, too impatient to be careful, and found an accompanying letter from the same bank, with details of his pin number.

He stared at them. By issuing everything in the name Porthos rather than Isaac, Athos had effectively granted him a new identity. 

"How the hell did you arrange these?" he murmured, turning the card over in his fingers, and wondering how much money was in the account. "Who the hell are you?"

The only question it was currently possible to get an answer to was how much money he had access to, so Porthos ventured down to the village. There was a small branch of the same bank that had issued the card - presumably why Athos had chosen it - and while it was currently only open two mornings a week, there was a cashpoint in the wall outside. 

Feeling more like a criminal than when he'd actually been one, Porthos fed in the card and nervously keyed in the number. It gave him access with no problems and Porthos felt some of the tension bleed out of him, realising he'd been subconsciously waiting for alarms to go off, or policemen to come running.

He selected 'view balance' - and stared at the screen. At first he thought he was reading the decimal places wrong, but no, it clearly said £30,000 available funds. Mouth dry and heart racing, he printed off a receipt, reclaimed his card and walked rather unsteadily to sit on a bench under some hanging baskets on the far side of the road.

Thirty grand. He'd been expecting perhaps a few hundred. It crossed his mind that he could clear out the account and - and then what? He faltered. Quite apart from the question of betraying Athos' trust, where would he go? With that kind of money he could hire a decent lawyer, but that still didn't guarantee he'd get anywhere, and he'd still be facing jail for his part in the robbery. If he stayed put and did what he'd promised - he had a whole new life waiting for him here, handed to him on a plate.

What kind of man gave this kind of money to a virtual stranger? And one who'd already confessed himself to be on the wrong side of the law, at that? It seemed to be the act of either a trusting fool or someone with more money than sense, and Athos had struck him as neither. Perhaps, then, it was merely an extension of the impulse that had driven Athos to be so generous with the contents of his wine-cellar - that he simply couldn't bring himself to care. Money was the means to an end, whether getting drunk or having his house returned to a habitable condition, and if he lost some along the way then so be it. It spoke of a certain numbness of spirit that made Porthos want to shake him and hug him in equal measure.

It finally occurred to Porthos then that he'd been so taken aback by the amount that he hadn't actually taken any money out, and he started laughing. Getting a funny look from a passing old lady made him sober up and take a hold of himself. He strode back over to the cashpoint and drew out fifty quid. Part of him was still somehow expecting something to go wrong, but the money slid smoothly out with no trouble. He folded it into his wallet and headed for the pub next door. 

Having been living extremely frugally for weeks, Porthos ordered a pint of lager and a plate of steak and chips, and decided nobody on earth could hold it against him. Once he'd polished off the lot, plus a bowl of rhubarb crumble and custard that he ordered on impulse having seen a portion being carried past to another table, he felt decidedly more at peace with the world and ready to face anything. 

He turned his mind to the question of the house. Whilst thirty grand was more money than he'd ever had in his life before, he suspected that in terms of renovating an old fire-damaged manor house it was a drop in the ocean. For all he knew the building was listed, which would make it even more complicated. He needed someone who could tell him what was possible, and how much it would cost. At least then he could draw up a plan of work, and if more money was required, he would at least have proper quotes and things to present Athos with, whenever he came back. 

Fired with a new enthusiasm that was only partially due to the lager, Porthos nipped across the road to the general store and bought a notebook, accounts book, and a pen, before returning to the pub and ordering another pint. 

Resuming his seat, he opened the accounts book and wrote a number of headings on separate pages - House, Welfare, and after a moment's consideration, Expenses. He wasn't sure how much Athos had intended him to take for personal use, or if he was entitled to draw a salary, and figured the best thing he could do would be to keep a strict record of everything he spent, and let Athos decide if it was fair. He carefully wrote in the price of his meal and drinks under 'welfare', with today's date, and then added another line for the notebooks and pen under 'expenses'.

If he was going to be ferrying building materials and things about he'd need to get his van fixed, and intended to put that down under expenses too. And maybe get a cheap laptop or something, so he could run this project properly. Having a proper internet connection at the house would help immensely. 

Noting that he didn't even have a phone signal in here, in the absence of any decent modern technology Porthos went over to the bar and asked if they had a Yellow Pages he could borrow. What he needed first, Porthos decided, was a competent surveyor. 

Three quarters of an hour later, Porthos was feeling slightly less positive. He'd copied down the details of several building surveyors and architects in the vicinity, and moved outside to a picnic table in the sunshine, where he could pick up phone reception. He'd made several calls, but the level of fees alone that everyone was quoting made his heart sink. He'd lose a huge percentage of his available funds before any works even started.

"Forgive me, but I couldn't help overhearing." 

Porthos looked up in surprise to find a man standing over his table. Salt and pepper hair and a well-tended moustache gave him the look of a retired colonel and Porthos' initial reaction was to wonder what he'd done wrong.

"Sorry, was I disturbing you?" he blurted, but to his relief the man shook his head.

"No, no, not at all, sorry I didn't mean to startle you. Am I right in thinking you're working on the Hall for the Count de la Fère?"

 _I knew he was a bloody lord,_ Porthos thought irritably. "Um, yes that's right."

"My name's Treville. I run a scrap and reclamation yard on the edge of the village, but in my younger days I was a structural engineer and surveyor. Still registered. I've known la Fère for years, he's a good man - I wondered if I might be of service?"

\--


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh! That would be very kind of you," Porthos exclaimed, hoping this meant he'd be prepared to do it for a considerably reduced sum. "Everyone's so bleedin' expensive and I don't want to waste his money."

"That's a very admirable attitude." Treville gestured questioningly to the table and Porthos abruptly remembered his manners.

"Please! Yeah, have a seat. I'm Porthos. Porthos du Vallon." They shook hands.

"You're his - project manager?" Treville hazarded, looking Porthos over with open interest.

"I guess you could say that, yeah," Porthos nodded. "He's leaving the decisions up to me. I'm just not exactly sure what's going to be possible," he admitted. "It's not listed is it? The Hall I mean?"

"No, you're safe there," Treville told him, much to Porthos' relief. "I mean, it was, obviously, simply due to its age I think, rather than any particular architectural merits, but Olivier managed to get it de-listed following the fire. It's about one of the only criteria they'll accept, and even then I think it was more that he knew somebody in the right department. So you've got a free hand. Are you talking in terms of rebuilding, or demolition?"

"We think we can save the west wing," Porthos said. "I guess you know the house? Yeah, well where the kitchens are, that bit. It could become a house on its own, a lot smaller obviously, but still, you know, habitable." Thinking that even this fraction of the whole would still create a bigger house than some apartment buildings he'd lived in. Well, squatted in, if he was being strictly accurate. If there was one thing his life before had prepared him for, it was how to exist in a building with no electricity.

"That's an idea. The worst of the damage is in the central block, if I remember?" Treville asked, and Porthos nodded. "Not been up there since just after the fire. He had me clear a lot of the furniture out, then closed it all up. I must say after all this time I'd rather assumed he wasn't coming back. I'm glad to hear he's showing an interest in the old place again." 

"Yeah. He said he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it," Porthos admitted, and Treville nodded slowly.

"I'm glad. I think he would have regretted it, if he had." Treville gave Porthos a brisk smile. "So, shall we take a look at the place, see what's do-able?"

\--

When he discovered that Porthos had walked down, Treville offered him a lift back up to the house in his pick-up. It was in rather better condition than Porthos' van, and had _Garrison Salvage_ painted on the side. 

"Garrison?" Porthos asked, and Treville laughed. 

"The site used to be an army barracks. Plenty of old units for storage you see. You'll have to come out and take a look, I'm sure there's a lot of things that can help you out with the refitting. Cheaper than buying new," he added, with a sideways look at Porthos that made him laugh.

"You haven't told me what your consultancy rate is yet," Porthos pointed out.

"Tell you what. You come to my yard for as many of your materials as you deem suitable, and give me first pick of anything that comes out the house during the works, and I'll give you the benefit of my advice free of charge, how's that sound?"

"Sounds too good to be true," Porthos said a little warily, and Treville snorted.

"I like a man with natural caution. I can show you my qualifications if you want? And fair enough, come out and see the quality of what I've got in stock before you make a decision."

"Alright. I will. Thanks." They'd reached the main gates and Porthos jumped out to haul them open. They'd been chained shut at one point, but he'd broken off the padlock the day he'd moved in, to get his van off the road. Porthos shot a guilty look at the clump of bushes where he'd chucked it, and climbed back up beside Treville for the short ride up the drive. 

Pulling up in front of the house, Treville regarded the ruined facade silently for a moment, and shook his head sadly. "Such a shame," he sighed. "Used to be a magnificent old place." 

"You must know Athos quite well?" Porthos asked, and Treville looked puzzled.

"Athos?"

"Oh, er, I mean Olivier," Porthos said hurriedly, inwardly wincing. Some spy he'd make, blurting aliases all over the countryside. 

"Yes." Treville was still looking at him curiously. "I was a friend of his father's actually, but when he passed away Olivier would occasionally come to me for advice. Not that he ever took it," he added darkly, and Porthos laughed.

"I can imagine." He lead Treville inside and down the passage to the kitchen. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

Treville was looking round in surprise, particularly at the rumpled bedding visible through the inner door. "You're living here?" He suddenly sounded more uncertain, as if Porthos might be trespassing after all. "Is Olivier contactable? Possibly I should discuss this with him first. Get an idea of what he wants and so on."

"He's out of the country," Porthos said, suspecting that this was probably true. "Um, I've got this, if it helps?" He picked up the letter of authority that was still lying on the table and held it out. 

Treville read it carefully, then to Porthos' relief nodded. "Well that's certainly his signature. I'm sorry Porthos, I didn't mean to cause offence, but - you know how it is." He was looking faintly embarrassed now, but Porthos gave him a magnanimous smile.

"Yeah. You can't be too careful, eh?" He pulled the door to the scullery shut to hide his messy bedroom. "It seemed easier to live-in, you see," Porthos added evasively. "Be on hand for stuff. Rather than - you know. Commute."

Treville nodded. "Yes, I can see that. Rather you than me though. Are any of the utilities even still connected?"

"The water's on. That's about it. But the range works, and there's plenty of wood."

"We'll have to see about getting it all reconnected," said Treville, stepping out of the kitchen door and peering up at the façade. "First things first though we need to make it weather-proof. Get the roof repaired - it's possible you could re-use tiles from the rest for some of it, keep costs down. And get the windows seen to, and structurally separate this wing from what's still standing on the central range, or you'll get creeping damp."

Encouraged by the matter-of-fact way Treville was addressing things, Porthos beamed hopefully at him. "It is feasible then? I wasn't sure it would be."

"Anything's possible, Porthos."

"With the right attitude?" Porthos hazarded, and Treville gave him a wry smile.

"With enough money. What's your budget?"

Porthos' face fell a little. "Thirty K," he said, then remembered he had to live on that as well. "Give or take. As - you know, a first pass," he added, as Treville looked dubious.

"Well, it's better than nothing, although I can see why you don't want to be wasting money on architects' fees." Treville folded his arms and squinted back up at the roof. "It'll get you watertight I reckon, and it'll go further if you can do some of it yourself. Any good with a hammer and nails?"

"Guess I'll have to be," Porthos said. "Although I'm probably better with a teapot."

Treville slapped him on the back. "Good man. First rule of successful project management: keep the labour force happy. White, two sugars."

\--

Despite the fact that he was working entirely legitimately for Athos exactly as he had described, Porthos still passed an uneasy evening worrying that Treville hadn't believed him, and that he would come back with the police.

The next morning Treville did indeed return, but instead of the village bobby he brought something that put Porthos' mind at rest for good - floor plans of the house.

"I went out to the county archive, had these photocopied," Treville said cheerfully, rolling them out on the kitchen table for Porthos to hastily weight down at the corners with the jam pot and various condiments. "Now, this is where we are at the moment - I assume you'll sever the building fabric on the line of the wall here will you? It makes sense, the worst of the collapse is here to the west of the central range, because that's where the main staircase was. That way the side door here would become your main entrance?"

Porthos nodded eagerly over all his suggestions, and Treville produced a thick pencil and started marking comments and proposed alterations on the plan. 

"This kitchen may as well stay as it is," Treville offered. "And the scullery-utility room. The room beyond that could be the new dining room? In fact you could take this dividing wall out and make it a decent size, we'll check, but it doesn't look load-bearing based on these - look, these thicker ones are the walls you want to watch out for, don't go mucking about with them or you'll bring the whole floor above down on your head."

"What's that hole?" Porthos asked, pointing to a white space showing in the centre of the thickest piece of wall behind the scullery. If that was the wall holding the ceiling up, he wasn't sure he liked the idea that part of it was hollow.

"Tell you the truth, I don't know," Treville said, scratching his head. "From the position I'd say it was servants' stairs, but I've never known of any. You're sleeping in there aren't you, is there a door?"

"No." Porthos frowned, then remembered the way the panel had clicked out to reveal the keys. "But it might be hidden?"

"A secret passage?" Treville laughed. "You've been reading too many stories."

"No, but it might be!" Porthos insisted, and immediately went to look. Treville followed him indulgently, and they spent the next half an hour tapping the panelling and prodding at knotholes in the woodwork.

"It does sound hollow," Treville admitted, to Porthos' satisfaction. "But it might only be water and heating pipes or something," he warned.

"It's secret stairs, I'm telling you," Porthos said stubbornly. "Do you think they might open on the other side of the wall, into the hallway instead?"

Treville considered. "If it is a set of back stairs it would make sense for them to come out here, in what was originally the servants' quarters. The dining room was on the first floor, a set of back stairs would have given them a quicker way up." He stood back and considered the wall with fresh interest. "You know, I think I'm talking myself into this. There has to be a way in somewhere."

"It shouldn't be this hard," Porthos frowned, and Treville laughed.

"We may never find it I'm afraid. It's possible the fire damaged the mechanism, anyway."

Porthos shook his head. "No, I meant that literally - if you're right, and it was for people taking food upstairs? They didn't want to be fannying about looking for a hidden catch, did they? The sodding peacock's'd be getting cold or whatever." He looked around critically and his gaze lit on a wooden bracket protruding from the wall some way back from the area they'd been concentrating on. He reached out, feeling rather daft and gave it an experimental yank. To his surprise it swung downwards and a section of wall obediently clicked outwards. 

They stared at each other in astonishment, then Treville clapped him on the back. "Well done lad! We'll make a surveyor of you yet." 

They peered into the gap, and sure enough a set of narrow stone steps spiralled up within the thickness of the wall. Porthos fetched his torch and Treville waved him ahead.

"You found the way in, you should get to go first."

"Thanks," said Porthos a little uncertainly, looking at the cobwebs that were hanging down where the door had swung away from the wall and shuddering inwardly. He screwed up his courage and ducked into the opening. 

It was a tight fit for a man of his size and Porthos had to duck his head slightly, but to his relief he managed to work his way up and around the curve of the staircase without getting stuck. He was secretly glad Treville was right behind him, if he'd discovered this on his own he'd have had horrors of getting trapped.

Part of him had been hoping to find hidden treasure, but after a relatively short distance he came up against a blank wooden panel. Flashing the torch around Porthos spied a second wooden lever to the right of the door and pulled at it. Nothing happened, and he frowned, tugging it again, but it wouldn't budge.

"Problem?" Treville called from below.

"Lever won't work."

"It may be blocked on the other side?"

Porthos tried to picture the upstairs from his earlier explorations and shook his head. "This wing's fairly clear. The roof's come in, but I could get to most of the rooms." He tried the lever again, then in a fit of pique slapped it sharply. The lever promptly clicked up towards the wall and the door in front of Porthos' nose swung outwards.

"Push not pull," Porthos sighed, and stepped out of the staircase with some relief, surreptitiously wiping non-existent cobwebs off himself. He emerged into the first floor hallway, and Treville stepped out after him, looking around with interest.

"We were right, the dining room was just through there," he said, gesturing to a door on the left. 

"Do you think Ath- Olivier knows about those stairs?" Porthos wondered.

"I'd be surprised if he didn't," Treville admitted. "Small boy growing up in a place like this? I bet he knew every inch of it. Still, if he didn't it'll be a nice surprise for him." 

Porthos grinned. Treville was right, there was something immensely satisfying about secret passages, however functional their purpose.

They worked their way down the hall, peering into the rooms and assessing both what needed to be done to make them structurally sound, and also how they could best reconfigure them. Previously, Treville said, they'd been things like the dining room, drawing room and saloon, which conjured in Porthos' mind pictures of six-shooters and ten-gallon hats, but apparently was more chaise longues and occasional tables.

Pushing open the final door they both jerked backwards at a sudden flurry of noise and movement beyond. 

"Fucking pigeons," Porthos growled, realising they'd got in through the broken window. He strode into the room waving his arms, and three birds shot out through the shattered panes in a clap of wings. The floor was spattered with feathers and birdshit, and he grimaced.

"Sooner we get the windows fixed the better." The room was lined with shelves, and he looked round curiously. 

"Library," Treville supplied. "Most of the books were recovered thankfully. The more interesting ones Olivier donated to the British Library, the rest he sold off."

Porthos frowned. "He really didn't mean to come back and live here, did he?" he said softly.

"I don't believe he did." Treville glanced over at Porthos, who'd gone to stare pensively out of the bay window. "I wonder what changed his mind?"

\--

Downstairs they pored over the plans again, deciding how best the accommodation might be divided. Porthos was of the opinion that the library would make a fine master bedroom, having windows looking to the east, south and west, and with a small room opening off it that could become an en-suite. 

Having finally decided on a room layout they were both happy with, Treville then offered to take Porthos down to the reclamation yard. 

This, it turned out, was a revelation. Treville dealt not just in scrap metal but in reclaimed fixtures and fittings and furniture, and his various lock-up units were a veritable treasure trove.

"You know, somewhere I've still got a load of Olivier's furniture," Treville offered, as they walked through a room full of enamel baths and boxes of brass taps. "Not much call for that old, rather heavy dark wood furniture these days, but it would fit in nicely back at the hall."

"For a very reasonable price?" Porthos guessed, and Treville shook his head.

"Free of charge, it was his to begin with after all."

"Plus you've not been able to shift it," Porthos added and Treville conceded a smile.

"I _could_ do with getting the space back," he admitted. 

Porthos spent a happy couple of hours going through the things on offer and picked out a few pieces that Treville promised to reserve for him until the house was ready for them. Over a mug of instant coffee in the office, Treville also then furnished him with a sheet of recommended contacts that he'd been working on while Porthos had been browsing.

"The people on there will see you right," he promised. "There's a roofing firm, couple of builders, plumber, electrician and a couple of decorators. I've worked with all of them, and they won't rip you off."

"I don't know how to thank you," Porthos said effusively. "This is great. I'll be able to crack on in no time."

"Woah, not so fast," Treville cautioned, spreading out his hands. "Don't forget you'll need planning approval first."

This was like a bucket of cold water, and Porthos stared at him in dismay. "What? But the house is already there? We're just repairing it."

"We're not though, are we?" Treville pointed out. "We're essentially creating an entirely new dwelling out of part of it. Trust me, it'll need to go for planning and building regs. Eight weeks minimum." He took in Porthos' mournful expression and took pity on him. "Cheer up, there's still plenty you can be getting on with in the meantime. I reckon you could see about starting on the roof and window repairs without getting into trouble, that'll not make any change to the building line. And there's probably several weeks' work just clearing out all the debris, remember. I don't think you'll be bored." 

Porthos brightened slightly, especially when Treville promised to draw up all the plans he'd need for his planning application. 

He arrived back at the Hall in better spirits, and spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the plans they'd marked up and wandering through the rooms, trying to picture how they'd look when finished. It would provide Athos with three en-suite bedrooms plus a study-come-library upstairs, and downstairs a sizeable dining room, living room and east-facing breakfast room in addition to the kitchens, utility rooms and cloakroom. It would be a gorgeous house, and much more suitable for one person to live in than the sprawling old manor must have been in its original state.

Porthos looked again at the floor plans, studying for the first time the layout of the more ruined ranges. The bedrooms seemed to have been in the east wing, and he suddenly wondered for the first time if anyone had been injured in the fire, or even killed. It must have been a devastating event. Somehow he'd been picturing Athos living here alone, but from what he'd said there must have been at least a wife on the scene at some point, and maybe even staff. Did Athos have children, or any other family still living? 

Porthos realised he knew absolutely nothing about the man, and here he was preparing to undertake what would be a massive amount of work on his behalf. On the other hand, Athos had given him a shit-load of money to do it with, and Porthos found to his surprise that he didn't want to let him down.

He considered the list of names and numbers that Treville had supplied him with, and pulled out his phone to make a start.

\--

A full month after he'd waved Athos off to whatever hush-hush assignment he'd disappeared on, Porthos finally managed to get roofers on site, having spent the preceding weeks toiling to clear the fire damaged timbers and stonework out of the building. He had a team of workmen who'd helped with much of it, but frequently found himself working on alone well into the evenings. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do with his time. 

By this point he was on first name terms with every builder's yard in the county, and had a good idea of those works he could carry out straight away, and those he'd need to wait for planning approval for. The day someone from the council had come out to make their initial inspection had been the most nerve-wracking of his life, and that included ones where he'd been chased by the police. 

Porthos wished Athos had been there for a bit of upper-class glad-handing, or even Treville, but he'd been on his own. Thankfully the woman had been positive about it all and seemed to understand what he was stumblingly trying to get across, agreeing that restoring part of the house as a dwelling was preferable to leaving the whole thing as a ruin.

After that he'd been keener that ever to see things progress, and gradually the west wing was taking shape as a proper house again, rather than one that had been sadly decapitated.

He was standing with a mug of tea in his hand, staring up at the roofers with a certain amount of pride when a woman's voice unexpectedly hailed him. 

"I say! Hello?"

He turned round in surprise to find a woman he'd never seen before striding up the drive. In headscarf and green wellies, from a distance he took her to be middle aged, but as she drew closer he realised she was only a few years older than him. 

"Who are you?" she asked without preliminaries, not exactly accusingly but sounding puzzled, as if she'd been expecting someone else. Athos presumably, Porthos realised, and suddenly experienced a jolt of alarm as he wondered if this was Athos' ex-wife. 

"My name's Porthos," he said. "Who are you?" 

She looked taken aback at this bluntness, then seemed to realise she'd been rather rude herself.

"Catherine. I live on the adjacent farm. I heard the hammering you see, and I thought - " she tailed off and looked rather embarrassed. "I thought Olivier might have come home."

Not the ex then, Porthos thought with some relief, then decided it didn't hurt to be sure. "You're not his ex-wife are you?" 

Catherine gave a startled laugh. "Good heavens no. That witch - no, certainly not." Her expression became a little wistful. "I had thought once, perhaps - but never mind. He hasn't sold the old place has he?" she asked suddenly, deftly changing the subject.

"No. I'm doing it up for him." Porthos suddenly realised this might be his chance to do a bit of digging. "You must have known him for a while, if you're neighbours?"

Catherine nodded. "Since we were children in fact. We grew up together really."

"Has he got any other family? Place this size seems a bit mad for one man on his own, if you'll pardon my saying so."

"No, Olivier's the only one left now," Catherine told him. "His brother died a few years ago."

"Not in the fire?" Porthos asked anxiously.

"No, no, off in Afghanistan or one of those dreadful places," Catherine said, dismissing the entire world outside the immediate vista with a flick of her hand. 

Porthos was relieved. "What did happen here?" he asked, but Catherine's willingness to gossip seemed to evaporate. 

"If he's not told you, then it's not my place to." She folded her arms and Porthos was just wondering if he could bribe her with cake when they were interrupted by Treville's van approaching up the drive.

"I'd better be off," Catherine said hastily. "Mind if I drop by occasionally, see how it's coming along?"

"Be my guest."

She hurried off, along the field path this time, and Treville stared after her inquisitively as he climbed out of the van.

"Was that Catherine?"

"Yeah, you know her?" 

Treville smirked. "We're acquainted."

"Oh come on, you've got to give me more than that!" Porthos complained.

"I'm not a gossip."

"I've got cake?" Porthos countered. "Homemade?"

Treville pursed his lips and then laughed. "Well, it's not really a secret. She's always rather fancied herself as lady of the manor. Olivier, it turned out, had other ideas." He looked up at the ruined façade. of the burnt-out central range, and sighed. "Maybe he should have married her. This place would still be standing."

"Yeah but then I wouldn't have a job," Porthos pointed out cheerfully. "And you wouldn't be getting cake. Come on, come in and see how they're getting on."

\-- 

When Athos had said he didn't know how long he would be away Porthos had assumed he was talking in terms of weeks rather than months, but somehow almost three months had passed and now Porthos and Treville were standing on the drive looking at a building festooned in scaffolding as a gaggle of contractors prepared to demolish a section connecting the west wing to the rest of the building. 

Somewhat to Porthos' surprise, planning approval had been granted without issue and consequently the full scope of works was now in motion. But as the workmen prepared to set about severing the two parts of the house, he couldn't help but feel nervous.

"Everything alright?" Treville asked, catching the tense look on his face.

"Yeah." Porthos scratched his beard, and sighed. "It's just - I thought he'd have been back by now. I thought I'd have been able to run the plans past him before we got to the point of actually knocking his house around. What if he hates it?"

Treville looked sideways at him. "How many of this kind of project have you actually run before, if you don't mind my asking?" he enquired mildly. He'd found Porthos to be enthusiastic and hard-working, but it was patently obvious there were huge gaps in his knowledge and experience.

Porthos looked shifty. "Not many," he admitted. Technically it wasn't a lie.

"You're not in contact with Olivier at all?"

Porthos shook his head. "I kind've got the impression he was out of reach."

"How long have you known him?" Treville ventured, clearly wondering where Athos had dug him up from but too polite to ask.

"Not long." Just a few days, Porthos realised. Somehow it felt longer. Athos had been a constant presence in his mind all these weeks as he went over and over the design. It came as a slight shock to realise he only had a dim recollection of what the man looked like. 

"Well, I've known him some considerable time," Treville told him. "And he's not a man to go back on his word. If he's left the decisions up to you, you can be sure he'll back them to the hilt."

"Thank you," Porthos said gratefully, and Treville gave him a brisk nod. 

"You know where I am, if you've ever got any questions," he added quietly. "Never be afraid to ask." 

Porthos nodded solemnly. He got the impression Treville saw right through him and correctly suspected he didn't have a clue what he was doing half the time, but at least he'd never said as much.

"I'll come down to the yard tomorrow," Porthos promised. "Pick out a few more bits and pieces."

Treville gave him a wry smile. "Only if it's things you really need. Not everyone's out to make a fast buck you know. I don't mind giving advice." He gave a sudden laugh. "It's nice to meet someone who actually takes it for a change."

\--

With the roof on, the windows in and the building structurally secure, the first phase of works was essentially complete, and Porthos realised with a slight pang of regret that the internal works - the handful of new partitions and openings he wanted putting in, the decorating and furnishing - the fun part, in other words - would have to wait, as he was rapidly running out of money.

The plumbing was mostly sorted, with two out of three upstairs bathrooms now being connected, along with most of the old cast iron radiators Porthos had bought off Treville. There seemed to be a distinct lack of original heating in the house other than the occasional fire place, and Porthos suspected it had been a cold and draughty old place.

Thanks to a generator the builders had provided, the downstairs also now had electric light and power. Porthos still spent most of his downtime in the kitchen as this was cosiest, although he'd moved his bedding upstairs to the room he still thought of as 'the saloon', mostly because it amused him. 

One evening he settled at the kitchen table with all his various receipts, invoices and cheque stubs, determined to tally up his outgoings. He'd let things slide for a couple of weeks; there'd been so much going on that he hadn't had time to sit down and go through it all. Most expenses he tried to keep a record of as he went along in his now extremely battered accounts book, but he'd also invested in a laptop and there was quite a lot that needed transferring. Once the exercise was complete, he'd know how much left he had to play with.

Frowning over the piles of paperwork with laptop and calculator, Porthos added up the total, then stared in consternation. "Well that can't be right," he muttered to himself, heaving a sigh and starting again. He came to the same figure though, and a cold weight was settling in his stomach.

"No, that can't be right, no, no, no!" Porthos totted everything up a third time, cross-checking between spreadsheet and calculator. Everything came to the same stark total, and finally he realised what had happened. In his head he'd had the scaffolding lumped in with the builders' work, but it had been from a separate firm and he'd completely forgotten about accounting for the costs of it. 

He sat back in the chair, feeling sick. Either the cheque he'd paid them with would bounce, in which case he'd have a group of irate scaffolders turning up on his doorstep at any moment with no means of paying them, or the bank would honour it, but in doing so would place him about five thousand pounds overdrawn. He winced at the thought of what kind of bank charges that would incur, and wondered just how deep the shit he was in would turn out to be. 

Almost too afraid to look, Porthos knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he knew either way, so he coaxed the tenuous internet connection into life and logged on to his bank account. He screwed his eyes shut as the page loaded, then forced them open.

"Eh?" He stared. _Available funds: £24,952.32_ it read.

His first thought was that the page hadn't updated properly, but he was certain there'd been less showing the last time he'd logged in. His second thought was that Athos had somehow been monitoring the account remotely and come through in the nick of time, but as he scrolled back up through the transactions Porthos finally realised it had been an automatic payment - the moment the funds had dropped below three thousand pounds it had triggered something that immediately topped it back up to thirty. 

He could have wept with relief, and he could also have strangled Athos for not telling him. Although, Porthos acknowledged guiltily, if he'd known from the start he had access to unlimited funds would he still have stuck around? He liked to think so, but he was glad it wasn't a question he'd had to ask himself.

This meant he could carry on with the interior works he realised, and brightened up no end. He'd call Treville first thing in the morning, and tell him the good news.

\--

Gradually the house took shape, turning from building site into something more or less habitable. Porthos started furnishing the rooms, firstly taking delivery of what original furniture Treville still had in store and then adding pieces himself, bought either from Garrison Salvage or the county's various junk shops. 

He had no idea about Athos' tastes, but found he harboured his own ideas about what a country manor house should look like. He went for traditional wood tables and dressers and even found some old blanket chests with metal strap bindings that looked good in the hallways. 

To his surprise Catherine had proved invaluable, providing both a critical eye and a willingness to source curtains and rugs and cushions that softened the edges of the place without making it look overly feminine in taste. She was responsible too for flowers appearing everywhere; large earthenware jugs frothing over with blossom in the hallways, roses in a silver vase on the dining room mantelpiece, sweetpeas in a glass jar on the kitchen table.

There was still a lot to do. Wires trailed from conduit along the upstairs hall, and what electricity there was still ran off the generator. Most rooms had some kind of furniture in, but no possessions to make it look lived in, and Porthos found himself wondering where Athos lived the rest of the time. The house had clearly been deserted for several years following the fire. Did Athos have another house somewhere, maybe a flat in the city? 

Porthos suddenly realised that Athos might not intend living here at all when it was finished, and the thought hit him with a surprising amount of sadness. He'd been fitting it out with Athos in mind, regardless of the fact he barely knew anything about the man, and the thought that it might be simply sold on or rented out was galling. Belatedly, he wondered if he should have spent so much on furnishing the place. Had Athos only meant him to make it structurally sound? He wracked his brains to recall their exact conversations about it, but it was so long ago now that it was all a bit of a blur. 

Standing in what he'd intended to be Athos' bedroom, Porthos looked around. The racks of library shelving had been taken down and most of the walls plastered. Liking the contrast in textures, the south-facing wall he'd left as stonework, now painted a buttermilk yellow. It incorporated the big bay window and Porthos walked over, trying to decide whether to fit a window seat. It would be a gorgeous place to sit, giving views down the drive to the west and up towards the woods to the south-east. 

Movement in the distance caught his eye. A figure was coming down the path towards the house, and at first he assumed it was Catherine, but shading his eyes from the sun Porthos realised it was a man. He stared, heart suddenly thumping in his chest. Was it Athos? It could be. They were still a way off and it was hard to tell, but who else would be coming this way? 

Porthos reminded himself that technically the footpath at that point was a public right of way and it might just be a lone rambler, but they certainly seemed to be heading towards the house. There was something strange about the man's gait though, and Porthos realised he was weaving slightly as he walked. Was he drunk, or just exhausted? It wasn't that long a walk, assuming he'd come from the station. Three miles at most. 

As Porthos watched, the man's progress got slower and more unsteady, as if he was wading through treacle. Then, to his horror, just before reaching the gate in the wall that would let him into the garden proper, Porthos watched as the man stopped dead, swayed for a second, then crumpled softly into the long grass.

Porthos hared down the stairs and out of the door, racing through the garden. Letting himself out through the gate he found to his consternation that it was indeed Athos, and that he was still lying where he'd fallen.

"Athos? Athos!" Porthos dropped to his knees beside him and reached out in alarm. To his relief Athos was at least semi-conscious, although his breathing was laboured and he seemed weak and disoriented. He was sweating heavily, and Porthos finally realised he was ill.

"Athos? Can you hear me?"

Athos tried to focus on him, but clearly didn't know who Porthos was or what was going on. Porthos groaned. 

"If it turns out you've got ebola, I am going to be really pissed off," he muttered, getting an arm underneath him and dragging Athos to his feet. "Come on, let's get you inside."

Porthos hauled Athos up the stairs and deposited him on the bed, reflecting ruefully that this wasn't quite how he'd planned on introducing Athos to his new room. He helped Athos out of his jacket, loosened his shirt and took off his boots, wrinkling his nose at the state of Athos' socks which were more hole than wool.

"Do you need a doctor?" he asked anxiously, once Athos was as comfortable as he could make him. "Or an ambulance?"

Athos managed a shake of his head. "Pills," he whispered hoarsely. "In my bag."

Porthos looked around with increasing confusion and then dimly remembered a bag had been lying next to Athos in the field. He dashed downstairs again and found to his relief it was still there. 

By the time he got back to the bedroom he was out of breath, and hunted through an unpleasant tangle of dirty laundry without success. Athos had been gone over four months, and it looked like he'd spent the whole of that time wearing the same three shirts. 

Porthos lifted up the empty bag and gave it an irritable shake, finally tracking down a promising rattle to a side pocket. The label gave an incomprehensible medication name and then the thankfully more prosaic "take two capsules three times daily". Porthos shook a couple out and went to fill a glass with water, helping Athos to swallow them down before settling him back on the bed.

This effort seemed to exhaust the last reserves of Athos' strength, and he promptly passed out completely. Giving him a worried look, Porthos went back downstairs and googled the medication in some trepidation, braced for it to be for some hideous tropical disease. To his relief they turned out to be strong but bog-standard antibiotics.

Porthos returned upstairs to discover Athos now sprawled on the floor. 

"Oh for fuck's sake." Porthos heaved him up again, but when he tried to return Athos to the bed he resisted weakly, giving a punch-drunk shake of the head. 

"Need - need to - y'know," he slurred.

"You need a piss?" Porthos guessed. "Well this is your lucky day mate, you get to christen the en-suite." He guided Athos to the inner door, and swung it open. "You need a hand?" he asked dubiously, watching Athos clinging onto the door frame with some misgivings.

"'ll'be'kay," Athos mumbled, and Porthos shrugged.

"You piss on the floor, I'm not clearing it up," he announced, folding his arms. 

Despite this, he hovered outside until the toilet flushed and Athos came out again, fielding him neatly as Athos promptly fell over the threshold.

"Yeah, mind the step, sorry, shoulda warned you 'bout that." He helped Athos back to the bed, then nipped down the passage to his own room and returned with a clean t-shirt and pair of boxers.

"Right, let's be having you. These'll be a bit big but those clothes stink, they're probably what's making you ill." 

Porthos stripped Athos of his stained and rather ragged clothes, relieved to find that other than the fever-sweat Athos was quite clean underneath. He did however discover the probable cause of Athos' current infection, exposing a weeping and inflamed cut on his right calf.

"Jesus." Porthos winced, swallowing down the impulse to retch. "The hell have you been up to?" He fetched his first aid box, months of building works having ensured this had expanded into something that could probably cope with a small war. Having helped the unprotesting Athos into the clean clothes, he then steeled himself to clean the wound, dabbing on antiseptic cream and carefully wrapping it in gauze and bandages. 

"There we go," he sighed, tucking Athos under the covers and resisting the ridiculous impulse to stroke his hair. "You rest now." 

He'd been right about his clothes being loose on Athos, Porthos mused, it looked like the man hadn't eaten properly for weeks. Maybe he should make him a cake. 

\--

Athos drifted in and out of sleep for a full day and the following night. During his brief periods of wakefulness Porthos managed to coax him into taking some water and his pills but little else, and Athos clearly had no idea where he was. Porthos worried that he should have called a doctor after all, and wished he could ask Treville for advice, but the man was inconveniently out of town all week.

Tiptoeing in to see how he was doing on the morning on the second day, Porthos was surprised to find Athos sitting up in bed. He was looking around him with a faint air of confusion, which changed into a puzzled smile of surprise when Porthos came into the room.

"Porthos?"

Delighted at finding him lucid and apparently much recovered, Porthos grinned at him. "Morning. You're looking better."

"I made it home?" Athos breathed, sounding surprised. 

"You did." Porthos smiled at him, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Well, nearly. You passed out in the field. Good thing I happened to be looking out the window just then, or you'd probably have been there all night." 

Athos returned his smile, looking bewildered but unmistakeably pleased. "I wasn't sure you'd still be here," he said softly. Porthos ducked his head.

"Where else was I gonna go?"

"I'm glad to find you here," Athos said sincerely. He looked around, the faint frown back on his face. "Where is here though?"

Porthos laughed. "Well I guess you'd know it as the library. Now it's your new bedroom. Um. Surprise?"

Athos' expression cleared as he finally reconciled the familiar contours of the room with the lack of shelving and new décor. "You did all this?" he asked.

"Yeah. Well, not all on me own, obviously."

Athos looked back at him and smiled. "You have been busy."

Porthos felt a weight of tension sliding from his shoulders. "You get your strength back and I'll show you the rest. I'll bring you something to eat, you must be starving."

"I feel like I haven't eaten for days," Athos agreed and Porthos laughed. 

"You ain't."

Athos looked startled. "How long have I been here?"

"Couple of days. You were pretty delirious."

"Christ." Athos looked embarrassed as the implications of this sank in, coupled with the fact that the t-shirt and underwear he was currently wearing most definitely weren't his. "Have you been - looking after me?"

"Regular Florence Nightingale me," Porthos agreed, getting to his feet. "You made it to the loo on your own though," he added reassuringly. "You don't have to worry that I've been giving you bed-baths."

Athos' lips curved up in a smile. "Glad to hear it," he said, then once Porthos had gone, lay back against the pillows and sighed. "Would have been a shame to miss that, after all."

\--

"So. What do you think?" Porthos ventured, hoping he didn't sound as nervous as he felt. 

Having spent most of the day in bed, Athos had declared himself entirely recovered and insisted on getting up. Shaky on his feet but determined, he'd let Porthos give him the full tour of the changes he'd made, and they were now standing in the new sitting room, French windows thrown open to the west and the orange rays of the setting sun gilding them both with a warm glow.

"I love it," said Athos immediately, and the last shreds of Porthos' apprehension melted away. "You've done an amazing job. Incredible. I never imagined - I thought maybe I'd come back to find the roof on, at best."

"I've got all the accounts, if you want them?" Porthos offered. 

Athos nodded vaguely. "My accountant probably will. Thank you. I'm sure they're fine," he added with a smile. "Frankly however much you've spent, it's well worth it." 

"There's still a bit to do," Porthos said and Athos nodded immediately. 

"Oh you carry on, please. I can see the place is in safe hands."

Porthos smiled at him, pleased and rather flattered. "You are going to live here then?" he asked hopefully. 

"Be daft not to wouldn't I?" Athos murmured, and Porthos breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Have you got - you know. Any stuff?" he said vaguely, waving his hands around in an attempt to indicate the mostly bare shelves and cabinets. "Personal stuff. To move in?"

Athos looked at him, and seemed to be weighing something up. "Have you been down to the cellar much?" he asked randomly. Porthos shook his head.

"Didn't really like to. I had the builders clear out the access though, you don't need to climb under bits to get to the door any more."

Athos looked briefly surprised. "Sorry, I should have said," he murmured. "You should help yourself, to anything you want." He came to a decision, and walked back down the hall to the kitchen, where he collected the key. "Come with me," he invited.

Porthos followed him down to the cellar, assuming they were going to pick out something to drink, but Athos walked past the wine racks and lead him to a door in the far corner that Porthos hadn't noticed the first time they'd been down here. 

"The cellars run under most of the house," Athos explained. "The way down from the east wing is completely blocked though." 

That reminded Porthos of something he'd left out of his tour. "Hey, did you know there was a secret passage? From the kitchen?"

"The back stairs?" Athos said, and Porthos deflated a little. 

"Yeah."

"Found them when I was a kid," Athos told him, smiling at the memory. "Thought it was the most exciting discovery of my life."

Porthos grinned at him, pleased that even if it wasn't a surprise, that Athos had at some point experienced the same childish thrill he had. "I thought I was going to find hidden treasure," he admitted.

"Sadly there was none of that in there even when I was a kid," Athos admitted, unlocking the door and pushing it open against protesting hinges. "I think I found a few old corks, that was all." He smirked. "I suspect some ancient butler used it as a secret drinking den."

Porthos stepped into the inner room with him, flashing the torch around with interest. It contained several old fashioned trunks, some tea chests and a pile of more modern looking suitcases and cardboard boxes. "Hidden treasure?" he guessed with a smile.

"Not quite. You were asking about my possessions - well - this is most of them. Everything I managed to salvage after the fire, and didn't want to get rid of." Athos sighed. "I sold most of it off to be honest. But there were a few things I found I wanted to keep. I spend a lot of time travelling, in my job - I've not had the time to put down roots anywhere else. I've never been back for it all." He hesitated. "For a long time I didn't want to _come_ back."

"And now you do?" Porthos said hopefully. 

"I guess I do." Athos looked round at the piles of his belongings and gave rather a helpless sigh. "I can't even remember what's in half of this lot if I'm honest. I wouldn't know where to start."

"Would you like me to bring it all up for you?" Porthos offered. "I could unpack it if you want? I mean - I understand if you'd rather I didn't go through it," he added hastily, not wanting Athos to think he was prying.

Athos though, seemed to think this was a good idea. "That would be kind," he said eagerly. "I'll never get round to it otherwise." He prodded a couple of the cases experimentally. "It all seems to be quite dry, but if anything's gone peculiar, just chuck it." 

Seemingly losing interest again he went back out to the wine cellar and after a moment's consideration selected a bottle and held it out for Porthos to see. "We should celebrate all your hard work," Athos said.

Porthos' eyebrows went up. "Vintage champagne? How much is the bloody thing worth?"

Athos shrugged. "Who cares. Drink it with me?" he coaxed. "Please?"

Porthos gave in with a laugh. "Yeah, alright. But you're nuts."

"You leave my nuts out of this." Athos gave a pleased smirk and headed for the stairs.

\--

Champagne on top of strong antibiotics hadn't been the best idea in the world, and Athos had spent most of the night trying not to throw up. Consequently he came down to breakfast looking rough and feeling rougher, although the prospect of gallons of tea and some of Porthos' homemade bread cheered him up considerably.

"You're a man of many talents," Athos said appreciatively, spreading butter onto his toast. "House renovation, home baking - you'll make somebody a lovely wife one day."

"I can turn my hand to most things," Porthos agreed with a grin.

"You'll be telling me next you ran up the curtains as well."

Porthos laughed. "No, that was Catherine."

"Catherine!" Athos looked hunted. "Has she been round then?"

"Well, yeah." Porthos suddenly wondered if he'd done wrong after all. "She's been a great help," he ventured, and to his relief Athos just nodded.

"Do me a favour?" Athos murmured. "Don't tell her I'm back?"

Porthos laughed. "I'm sure she'd be gentle with you."

Athos looked amused. "If she's been popping round maybe it's you she's taken a fancy to," he suggested.

"Hardly think I'm her type," Porthos said, and Athos raised his eyebrows.

"Why not? Who's going to turn their nose up at a man who can plaster a wall _and_ bake his own bread?"

Porthos grinned at him. "It's all just a matter of the right consistency."

They were interrupted by a knock on the back door and Athos jumped, until he realised it was a man and not Catherine.

"Treville!" Porthos threw the door open and let him in. "You're back!"

"I am. And I see I'm not the only one," he smiled, staring at Athos sitting at the table. "Welcome home. I was starting to think you'd been lost at sea."

"Treville. Hello." Athos got to his feet and the two men embraced warmly. "I hear you've been helping Porthos with the house. Thank you so much."

"Oh, it's been a pleasure," Treville said affably, accepting a mug of tea from Porthos with a nod of thanks. "I've just been sticking my oar in here and there you know, probably causing a nuisance of myself."

"I couldn't have done it without him, and he knows it," Porthos grinned, clapping Treville on the shoulder. 

"So are you home to stay now?" Treville asked curiously, and Porthos was grateful to him for asking the question he hadn't dared raise himself. To his disappointment, Athos shook his head.

"I'm just passing through. Between jobs. I've - been a bit ill." 

"Thought you looked pale."

"Just a touch of jungle fever," Athos smiled. "I'm fine now."

"You need proper rest," Porthos growled, uneasy at the thought Athos might be planning on taking off again before he was properly recovered.

"Listen to the man," Treville advised. "He speaks sense."

"God, now they're ganging up on me." Athos put up his hands in surrender. "Fine, I'm not going anywhere. Not till I hear otherwise, anyway."

"Not until your leg's properly healed," Porthos told him sternly. "I don't care who needs you."

Athos sipped his tea and said nothing, but he looked distinctly amused.

\--

In the end Athos stayed another week. It wasn't as long as Porthos would have liked, but he had to admit Athos was looking better. His leg, too, was much recovered, although Porthos guessed he would always have a scar there. He elicited solemn promises from Athos to keep it clean and covered until the skin was quite healed, and suspected that Athos didn't mean any of them. 

It wasn't that Athos struck him as reckless, more preoccupied and a bit scatty, and Porthos got the feeling that once he was focussed on a task little things like health and nutrition tended to get forgotten. He found himself wishing he could go with him, even though he had no idea where it was Athos was off to, and then wondered exactly when he'd become so protective of the confounded man.

This time, Athos had said, he hoped not to be away so long, and that an absence of four months had been unusual even for him. He also promised to give Porthos some warning of when he was coming back next time, apologising for turning up unannounced. Given that it was his house, and also that he'd barely been aware of his own name when he'd arrived, Porthos had laughingly forgiven him.

The house seemed empty when he'd gone, and Porthos distracted himself by bringing up Athos' belongings from the basement. It made sense to finish the decorating before he unpacked everything, but he was too curious not to have a nose through. The long sitting room that took up the whole width of the north side was mostly complete, so he stacked everything in there and started opening things up.

It felt a little like he was snooping and Porthos had to remind himself that Athos had given him permission. The suitcases were mostly full of clothes, smelling musty but in good repair. Porthos decided he'd take them to the launderette before hanging them up, so at least if Athos came back next time with his clothes in holes and ruined with ingrained dirt, he'd have something to change into. He also made a mental note to see about getting a washing machine installed as soon as the electric was properly sorted, to save him having to flog down to the village all the time.

The tea-chests contained books, and Porthos' first thought was that Athos had preserved the best of the library, perhaps the rarest and most valuable volumes. As he sorted through them, this was quickly disproven. They were predominantly tatty paperbacks, mostly murder-mysteries with a few science fiction and horror thrown in. There were a few hardbacks at the bottom, travel books mostly, with a couple on modern warfare and one, to Porthos' surprise, on Pre-Raphaelite art. 

The hardbacks he arranged on the shelves in the living room, the paperbacks he took up to Athos' bedroom. He felt obscurely pleased, that of a library presumably containing a fair amount of historic and valuable books, Athos had clearly kept the ones he liked rather than a selection for show. As he set them out, Porthos noted a few gaps in some of the series, and decided he'd see if he could track some of them down.

The boxes were a hodge-podge of items that had been thrown in with no apparent order. Ornaments, shoes, maps and crockery were speckled with random pens and stationery that looked like Athos had run out of patience and up-ended the contents of a drawer. When Porthos lifted up one box the bottom fell out, dissolved by a congealing mess of leaking toiletries. 

Gradually, he sorted through it. The ornaments were a curious mixture of things, some of them looking African, Indonesian, South American. Porthos wondered if they were things that Athos had brought back from his travels, but many of them looked antique and several not quite the sort of thing he imagined it would be that easy to get through customs. Athos' parents then, maybe. It made more sense, given how lightly the man seemed to travel; he didn't strike Porthos as one for picking up souvenirs. If these were things Athos had grown up with, it might explain why he was attached to them.

One of the steamer trunks contained paintings, carefully wrapped. Porthos covered them again with equal care, and decided once the walls were all done he'd have them hung up. He felt he was starting to get a handle on Athos' attitude, and sensed that if he'd kept them it would be to look at, not preserve in a vault somewhere.

One of the other trunks contained toys and games, and Porthos smiled. The clasp had been rusty and difficult to coax open, and he wondered if these particular things had been stored down there by Athos' parents at some earlier time. He wondered how much stuff had been lost in the fire. Presumably there had been attics full of who knew how many generations' stored possessions that had been utterly destroyed. 

Maybe it was a lesson about not holding onto stuff, Porthos thought. It was certainly one Athos seemed to have taken to heart. But it seemed even Athos hadn't been able to walk away completely, and Porthos was starting to make out the outline of his previous life contained in these few boxes. 

There were no CDs or records or DVDs in the cases, and Porthos recalled from the building plans that the original living room - drawing room, the plan had said rather grandly - had been in the section most badly affected by the fire. Presumably all that sort of thing had been lost. A week ago Porthos would have guessed Athos was into classical music and documentaries, but having just uncovered his taste in trashy novels he was starting to suspect otherwise. He might live in an ancient pile, but Athos was a very modern man.

Just how modern was brought home to him when Porthos opened the final case. Nested carefully in moulded foam was a pair of beretta semi-automatic pistols.

"Jesus." Wide-eyed, Porthos gingerly lifted out the layer of foam on its cloth tabs and stared at the layer below. This contained a strange looking set of knives, that looked as if they were missing their handles. Throwing knives, Porthos realised. 

"What the fuck do you get up to Athos?" Porthos sighed, putting everything back with extreme care and snapping the case shut again. No wonder Athos hadn't been all that perturbed by Porthos' own background. It was looking like he didn't have a patch on Athos.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

This time it was just over a month before Athos returned, and true to his word he sent Porthos a text message the day before to warn of his impending arrival.

Satisfied now both that Athos was intending to live here long-term and that he hadn't objected wildly to Porthos' taste in furnishings, Porthos had cracked on with the decorating, and Athos' bedroom was one of those he'd completed. Porthos had stuck with a colour scheme of creamy yellow walls and lighter pine furniture to keep the room bright and airy, but he'd added one feature wall of William Morris wallpaper, hoping Athos would like it. The case of weaponry, after some internal debate, he'd laid in the bottom of Athos' wardrobe. There was no point in pretending he hadn't found it.

He more than half expected Athos to arrive on foot over the fields again, but after an entire day of fruitless waiting, Porthos heard a taxi pull up just as it was getting dark. He went to the door to welcome Athos in, only to be shocked by how tired he looked.

"Hello Porthos." Athos managed a smile that somehow only seemed to accentuate the dark shadows under his eyes. 

"Athos." Porthos forced a smile of his own. At least Athos wasn't noticeably injured this time he thought, taking Athos' bag from him and ignoring his protests. "You look like you're about to drop, let me carry it."

"You're very kind," Athos sighed. "I don't want to take advantage."

Porthos opened his mouth to make a flippant comment and then closed it again. Athos was swaying where he stood, and clearly not listening anyway.

"Come on. You need a cup of tea."

"I need something stronger than that," Athos muttered, but he followed Porthos into the warm kitchen and sat down thankfully. 

To Porthos' relief after some food and a hot shower Athos looked a little better, although he was still pale and withdrawn. He re-appeared in the living room carrying a half-empty bottle of whisky that he'd obviously brought with him, and sank down onto the new sofa as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Athos murmured. "I'm probably not very good company right now, but will you join me in a drink?"

Porthos fetched glasses, then after a slight hesitation sat down beside him. 

"You alright?"

Athos paused before answering, then sighed.

"No, not really."

"You want to talk about it?" Porthos offered, accepting the glass of whisky Athos handed him.

"I can't," Athos said, sounding apologetic but also rather wistful.

"Oh come on." Porthos nudged him with his shoulder. "Who am I going to tell?"

Athos smiled at that, but still said nothing and Porthos probed a little harder.

"Who are you Athos? What do you do? Because forgive me for saying so, but it doesn't seem to be doing you any favours."

Athos gave him a tired smile. "It's a long story, if you want the whys as well as the whats." 

"I've got all night?"

Athos dropped his gaze, but he seemed to be considering, and Porthos kept quiet until finally he sighed and looked up again.

"I assume, judging by the presence of the flop-eared rabbit on my shelf, that you found the chest of toys?"

Porthos nodded. He was getting used to Athos' habit of seeming non sequiturs and assumed it was in some obscure way connected rather than a simple deflection. He grinned.

"I thought he could welcome you home. I'm guessing he's got a name though?"

Athos smirked. "He has. Although I warn you I've been trained to withstand torture, and you will never get it out of me."

Porthos cackled. "So what's our Mr Bunnikins got to do with anything?"

"Not the rabbit, but the trunk," Athos said. "Did you go through it all?"

Porthos shook his head. "You didn't really strike me as the kind've man who'd want to come home to a bed covered in soft toys. I put it back in the cellar."

"Okay. Wait here." Athos put down his drink and disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back he was holding a scrapbook, which he held out to Porthos.

"What's this?"

"It was my mother's," Athos told him, reclaiming his drink and taking a hefty swallow. 

"How did you know it was in there?" Porthos opened it up with interest. The first page held a wedding photograph, a woman in a long white lace dress and a rather stern looking man in an army uniform. 

"Because I packed it myself," Athos said, surprising him. 

"Have you got any children of your own?" Porthos ventured. Athos smiled slightly. 

"Not that I know of."

Porthos laughed, and went back to the scrapbook. "Your parents?" he guessed.

"Yes. My mother was an archaeologist. My father was a sergeant-major."

"Bet he was a bundle of laughs," Porthos said, and Athos smiled.

"Things were certainly - regimented, when he was around. Not that he was, much."

"Like father like son, eh?" Porthos teased, flipping through the pages. There were more photographs, including several of a baby that he guessed was Athos. A few pages on, a second baby appeared, sitting with a now more disgruntled looking toddler. "You were adorable." Porthos looked sideways at him. "What happened?" 

"Oi!" Athos elbowed him and Porthos laughed.

"Alright, fine, you're still adorable. Better?"

Athos snorted, but he was clearly trying not to smile as he topped up their glasses.

Amongst the photographs were various newspaper clippings, and one of them showed a picture of the house before the fire, apparently hosting a village fête.

"Impressive place," Porthos murmured.

"Ridiculous size," Athos said. "Should have sold it off as flats years ago. Or for a nursing home or a hotel or something."

Porthos turned more pages. The babies had become boys, now standing with their father and posing with fish they'd clearly just caught. "Was he nice?"

Athos considered. "Strict, but fair. We learnt the hard way to behave when he was around, but as long as we did, he was willing to make an effort. Our mother let us get away with more, when he was away. I think she had a rather more anarchic spirit, looking back."

"Are the ornaments all hers?" Porthos asked, looking round the room. "Was she into like - ethnography and stuff?"

"No, Anglo-Saxon pottery actually," Athos said with a smile. "My father brought all those back as gifts for her. I think he thought one artefact was much like another. She accepted them in the spirit they were meant, but we always got far more enjoyment out of playing with them. There's nothing quite like being presented with something embedded with crocodile teeth when you're seven." 

"Wouldn't know," Porthos muttered. "Not many crocs in the Thames."

"Then I formally apologise, for my disgustingly privileged upbringing," Athos said solemnly, sipping whisky, and Porthos made a face at him. 

"Oh shut up." He flicked further through the scrapbook. It fell open at a photograph of two young men in uniform, both smiling for the camera with their arms around each other. Athos must have been about twenty, Porthos judged, and looked surprisingly different without a beard. 

"I suppose it was inevitable that we'd both follow him into the army," Athos said softly. "There was never really any question about it."

Porthos turned another page, and stopped short. It was another newspaper clipping, this time an obituary. Major Thomas Daniel de la Fère, aged 24. Killed in active service. 

"Shit," Porthos said quietly. He'd known what was coming, Catherine had prepared him for that, but somehow after seeing the little boy grow up before his eyes it still came as a shock.

"I was with him," Athos said heavily. "Well, not with him, not when it happened, but - deployed with the same unit. He was trying to negotiate the release of some hostages. Some of our men. Would have made more sense to go in covertly, sneak them out, but no, somebody higher up decided we had to negotiate, do it openly. Sent him in wearing so much gear he could hardly walk."

Athos lifted his glass and seemed surprised to find it empty again. 

"They killed him?" Porthos guessed.

Athos nodded silently. "Didn't even give him a chance."

"What did you do?" 

Athos glanced at him speculatively. "What makes you think I did anything?"

Porthos shrugged. "Because you're clearly leading up to something, and if someone'd sent my brother back in a bucket I'd probably have been quite cross."

Athos stared at him for a second, then gave a reluctant and startled laugh. "Fine. Okay. Yes. I may have taken matters into my own hands. Very much not as part of an officially sanctioned mission and very much motivated by revenge. As I believe it was phrased at the court-martial shortly afterwards."

Porthos looked at him steadily. "Did you get 'em though? The ones responsible?" 

Athos poured more whisky. "Yes." 

"Did it make you feel better?" 

Athos downed the measure in one gulp and screwed his eyes shut for a second. "Yes."

Porthos nodded slowly. "That's alright then."

Athos gave a breathy laugh. "I like you, Porthos. Did I mention that?"

"No. But it's good to know." Porthos grinned at him, and after a second Athos smiled back.

"It should be stated for the record that I also secured the release of the hostages," Athos said. "A fact which thankfully stood me in good stead during my trial. It was agreed that if I quietly parted company with the British Army with immediate effect, no further action would be taken." He leaned back on the couch and gave Porthos an assessing look. "In essence, I went freelance."

"So that's what you get up to," Porthos breathed. 

Athos nodded. "The single major factor in things not getting done, or done too late, is the amount of red tape in the world. Not just our government, all of them. I, and - a couple of others, we go where we're needed. Under the radar, so to speak."

"For the right price," Porthos hazarded, and Athos nodded with a wry smile.

"We're not cheap. It's mostly governments and big corporations, but we do have - well perhaps morals is the wrong word, considering, but a certain set of standards. We'll only take jobs we have no actual objection to, and any one of us can veto a mission."

"You make it sound like the sodding A-Team," Porthos said, and Athos smirked.

"Not quite. I've certainly never been called upon to build a rocket launcher from the contents of a barn. Not yet, anyway. Often it's simply the recovery of an object, or data, or documents. Hostage release is quite common too. Very occasionally it's more - direct intervention."

"You're talking about assassination," Porthos guessed, and Athos gave something that was halfway between a nod and a shrug.

"Jesus." Porthos drained his own glass, then looked at Athos shrewdly. "So what went wrong this time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well you've had a face like a wet weekend ever since you came in the door. Something clearly went tits up?"

Athos sighed. "You don't want to hear about that. Trust me."

Porthos picked up the whisky bottle which was by now almost empty, and shared out the remainder between their glasses.

"Talk to me," he said quietly. "God knows, you look like you need to talk to someone. I can keep me gob shut, I promise."

Athos smiled faintly. "It wasn't really that I was worried about." He swirled the liquid in his glass, consideringly.

"It was a job for - well, let's not be too specific, let's just say it was the government of one of the central African countries. Half the place is riddled with petty warlords, all fighting over their own patch of land. Normally they're less than keen on European interference unless it's gun-running, but this time they needed a swift result. A party of dignitaries had been kidnapped, was being held hostage. All very embarrassing for certain people, so we were tasked with recovering them. We had intelligence they were holed up in one of the mountain villages. It should have been simple enough."

Athos broke off, staring into his glass. 

"Something went wrong?"

Athos nodded slowly. "They must have had someone on the inside, someone that tipped them off we were coming. When we got there, they'd gone. But they left the hostages behind."

Porthos was about to say that was good, then caught sight of Athos' face and held his tongue. 

"What was left of them," Athos concluded heavily. "And not just them. They killed the whole village, Porthos. Men. Women." He hesitated. "Children. Forty five innocent people, not counting the hostages, all dead. Because of us."

"It wasn't your fault," Porthos protested. "Whoever they'd sent, the same thing would have happened."

Athos nodded heavily and gave him a bleak smile. "I keep telling myself that. Oddly enough, it doesn't help." He downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down on the coffee table with a click. 

"We buried them," he said distantly. "All of them. I keep - I can't stop seeing them. The children, especially."

Porthos reached out tentatively and laid a hand on Athos' shoulder. "Did you go after them?" he asked, already guessing what the answer was likely to be. What Athos' reaction would have been. "The murderers?"

"Yes."

Athos seemed reluctant to elaborate, and Porthos guessed why. Guessed there would have been no trial.

"So what's the total at now then?" he asked instead. Not entirely sure Athos would take his meaning, but it seemed he did, looking at Porthos for a long time before answering.

"Twenty three."

"Shit." The knowledge that since they'd last touched on the subject Athos had killed six men felt like an oddly abstract fact, but Porthos sensed it was the victims who were haunting him, not the ensuing justice. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Athos' voice was hoarse, and Porthos let his hand slide right round his shoulders and drew him in towards him.

"Liar," he said softly, and pulled Athos into his arms. 

For a moment, Athos let Porthos hug him. He even returned the embrace, and they sat with their arms around each other, holding on tight. Then Athos took a shuddering breath and pulled back, getting to his feet looking flustered. 

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Porthos told him quickly, standing as well. "Is there anything I can do?"

Athos shook his head, but he managed a smile. "No, thank you though. I think I'd better go to bed. Goodnight Porthos." 

When he'd gone, Porthos resumed his seat on the sofa and picked up the scrapbook again, going through it more slowly. He smiled at the pictures of Athos as a child, and lingered over those showing him as a young man. The obituary came towards the end and Porthos had thought at first it was the final item in the book, until he turned the page to find there was one more picture stuck on the back of the final leaf.

It was another wedding photograph, and his stomach gave an unpleasant jolt as this time he recognised Athos as the bridegroom. Despite the fact that he knew Athos was now divorced, it was still an unwelcome reminder that the man was straight, and Porthos closed the scrapbook with a sigh. 

He hadn't really examined too closely his reasons for wanting to stay and work here, but if he was honest, Porthos knew deep down it had a lot to do with Athos. It wasn't just that the man was rich and good looking. Athos intrigued him. There was an air of inner pain about him that Porthos felt he was just starting to understand the reasons for.

"And what would he ever see in you?" Porthos sighed. He dropped the scrapbook onto the table and picked up their dirty glasses to take out to the kitchen.

\--

When Athos came down the next morning he looked like he'd passed a restless night, but he accepted the mug of tea Porthos handed him with a grateful smile.

"You're up early."

"No curtains in my bedroom yet," Porthos told him with a grin. "The sun wakes me up. Better than an alarm clock, this time of year. You want some toast?"

"Please."

Porthos started cutting bread. "I can't believe how dark it is out here at night," he said. "I've never seen so many stars in my life. I can lie in bed and look out at them."

Athos smiled at him. "Bit different from London, isn't it?"

"And quiet. Took me a while to get used to it when I first came out here," Porthos admitted with a laugh. 

Athos was quiet for a while, just sipping his tea contemplatively. "I'm sorry about last night," he said eventually.

"And I told you, you had nothing to be sorry for," Porthos told him sternly.

"Great tough mercenary I make," Athos sighed. "Crying on your shoulder like that."

"You weren't crying."

"I felt like it." Athos sighed, and Porthos studied him critically.

"When was the last time you had a holiday?"

Athos smiled crookedly. "I'm not entirely sure I understand the question." 

"You need a rest. A proper one. You'll burn out."

"You're not my mother," Athos protested wearily.

"No, but I am the man making your toast, so the least you can do is listen to me."

Athos looked embarrassed, and half rose to his feet. "Sorry, I should be doing that, you're not - "

"Sit down, shut up, and drink your tea." Porthos waved him back into his seat, then gave him a satisfied nod. "I'll let you know when you're taking liberties." He leaned back against the counter and regarded Athos soberly. "I just think - you look tired, Athos. And if you're tired you'll get careless. I'd hate anything to happen to you."

Athos looked up in surprise, and Porthos prickled with embarrassment at how that had come out. 

"That's - very sweet of you," Athos said carefully.

"Yeah, well. Wouldn't want to lose my meal ticket, would I?" Porthos retorted gruffly. He'd meant to lighten the mood, but the words came out and hung there awkwardly, sounding ungrateful and ugly. Athos said nothing, and Porthos winced.

"That - was meant to be a joke."

"I know," Athos said peaceably, and Porthos sighed.

"Wasn't very funny. Sorry." He turned his attention back to the toast and twitched it out from the grill just in time. 

"It does remind me of something I was going to talk to you about though," Athos said. "I finally got round to having a look through those accounts you gave me."

"They're all right aren't they?" Porthos asked anxiously, and Athos lifted a hand in apology.

"Yes, yes they're fine, sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you. It's just - as far as I can tell, you don't seem to be paying yourself any wages?"

Porthos set the toast on the table and sat down, looking embarrassed. "We never really talked about it. I mean, I've got a roof over me head, and all my food paid for out of it. I'm doing better than I ever have in my life, really."

"Maybe so, but I don't expect you to work for nothing," Athos persisted. "Sorry, I should have been clearer. Why didn't you ask me last time I was here?"

"Didn't really like to," Porthos said sheepishly, and Athos gave him a sympathetic smile that held a tinge of amusement.

"You know, for a career criminal, you're possibly the most honest man I've ever met."

Porthos looked briefly affronted, then grinned at him. "I was never very good at being a criminal if I'm honest. It was always born out of necessity rather than aptitude. I must say I like this better."

"Good." Athos nodded. "Then we'll sort out a suitable salary for you. Maybe set up another account for it. Sorry, I've never been very good at admin." He sighed. "I'm just a blunt instrument. Point me in the direction of whatever you want me to hit, that's all I'm good for."

Porthos shook his head. "You're a lot more than that," he murmured.

Athos looked surprised, then gave him the shadow of a smile. "Thank you," he breathed. "You're very kind. If hopelessly misguided."

Porthos snorted. "Oh shut up and eat your toast."

\--

Over the following months Athos came and went every few weeks, rarely staying for more than a week in between jobs, but neither did he stay away for more than a month at a time. They fell into an irregular but agreeable rhythm, sharing the space well enough without argument when Athos was at home.

He inevitably returned looking tired and worn down, and Porthos would spend the first evening looking after him without comment, and the first day following that scolding him severely. Athos would tolerate this with silent forbearance, and, honour satisfied and his worries out in the open, Porthos would then drop the subject until the next time round. 

Porthos was at least coming to accept that Athos was capable of taking care of himself, however exhausted and hollow-eyed he might look each time he returned. He tried coaxing further details out of Athos regarding the jobs he was undertaking, but after that first unloading of guilt and grief, Athos had remained tight-lipped. He'd promised Porthos this was not for want of trust in him, but simply maintaining the confidentiality people had paid for, and also to a certain extent protecting Porthos himself. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him, Athos said, and however vigorously Porthos disagreed, it never did any good.

The works on the house were nearing completion. Decorating had finally been finished, all mains services reconnected, and even the gardens had been given a make-over of sorts, although this had mostly just comprised heavy use of a lawnmower and hedge-trimmer. 

Porthos started wondering with a certain amount of apprehension what would happen when there was nothing left for him to do. Would Athos expect him to leave? He had enough money of his own now that it wouldn't necessarily be a problem, but the thought of it made him sad.

He was distracted to a certain extent from his worries by the appearance one day of a small black cat. With no collar and, as a swift trip to the vet established, no microchip, he didn't appear to have an owner and showed no inclination to leave, particularly once Porthos had taken pity on him and given him some roast chicken.

Porthos wondered where Athos stood on the subject of pets. It wasn't a topic of conversation that had ever come up, although they'd conversed on most things over the last few months. They'd even spent Christmas together, Athos turning up unexpectedly on Christmas Eve with both a goose and a migraine. He'd slept through most of the following day, but had been recovered enough by the evening to eat with Porthos, who'd spent the time looking up exactly how the hell you cooked a goose anyway. 

Before New Year came round Athos had gone again, and Porthos half suspected he'd actually been in the middle of a job. Having been resigned to spending Christmas alone he was glad Athos had come back after all, and though it had been a low key affair he'd enjoyed himself. 

He teased the cat with a strand of curtain braid, and laughed as it pounced on his shoelaces instead. Athos surely wouldn't have the heart to turf out such an adorable creature, Porthos decided. And it would be nice to have some company around the place the rest of the time. He still saw Treville occasionally, although not as often now the major building works were over. They would go for a drink together every so often to catch up on events, but most of Porthos' evenings were spent alone. 

Within a fortnight the cat was entirely at home and ruling the roost. Delighted with his new companion, Porthos was half-lying on the kitchen floor with a catnip mouse on a piece of elastic when he heard a dry laugh from somewhere behind him.

"Well. There's something you don't see every day."

He looked up, narrowly avoiding banging his head on a chair, to find Athos leaning in the doorway, arms folded and smirking down at him.

"Athos!" Porthos scrambled to his feet. "I wasn't expecting you!" He stared, realising that for once in his life Athos looked well-rested and reasonably happy. His natural pallor was offset by the beginnings of a tan, and he was still smiling. 

Porthos couldn't help himself, he threw his arms around him and gave Athos a hug of welcome.

Half-laughing, Athos hugged back. "Hello. Sorry for the surprise visit."

"You're looking good. Well, I mean," Porthos corrected hastily. 

Athos conceded the point with a self-conscious shrug. "Sometimes - not very often, but occasionally - a job goes better than you're expecting it to. Over with cleanly and quickly, until what you've essentially got, is two weeks in the sun."

"About time you caught a break," Porthos said fervently.

"Maybe I was owed one. Anyway, yes, it went well, and quicker than I expected. So - here I am."

Porthos smiled. "Welcome home."

"I see we have a new addition to the household," Athos observed, laughing at the cat which was now trying to claw its way up Porthos' jeans.

"Oh, yes." Porthos looked guilty. "He just turned up one day. Looking for a home, I guess."

"It's funny how they do that," Athos murmured, crouching down to scratch the cat between the ears. Porthos looked at him sharply, but Athos seemed entirely absorbed. "What's his name?"

"I've been calling him Roger," said Porthos, and Athos gave him an amused look of enquiry. "What? He looks like a Roger."

"If you say so." The cat was now perched on Athos' shoulders, and he ducked his head as a paw patted at his hair.

"Can we keep him?" asked Porthos, hopefully.

"Of course." By now Athos was on all fours with the cat standing on his back and Porthos grinned down at him, struck by a sudden wave of affection and attraction. It might be hopelessly unrequited, but Porthos was content just to be here with him. To be counted as part of the household, he realised, taking in Athos' words from earlier. It had a ring of permanence to it, that might be entirely illusory but for now made him feel warm and wanted.

Having first fed Athos on tea and cake, Porthos then took him on a tour of all the updates he'd made since Athos' last visit. They ended up in the first floor study; the ruins of the central and east ranges just visible through the leaded windows.

"You really have done an amazing job," Athos said. "It's all far more homely than I ever remember it being before."

Porthos smiled at the praise, but there was an inescapable truth that he had to confess to. 

"I suppose it's pretty much - well - finished, now," he ventured, praying silently he wasn't talking himself out of a home and a job.

Athos looked startled. "Oh. Right. I see." He started to say something, then broke off again, staring out of the window, as if in search of inspiration. "Well. There's always the east wing?"

"The east wing?" Porthos came to stand beside him, and followed the line of his gaze. The opposite range was in far worse condition than the one they were standing in had been. "It's a bit more - " He searched for the appropriate word. "Buggered."

"I was thinking it could maybe be converted into a couple of cottages," Athos said. "The foundations and most of the ground floor walls are sound. It could be like, guest accommodation."

"You never have any guests," Porthos couldn't help saying.

"I might one day," Athos said indignantly. "Or you might. I mean - I know there's a spare room here, but this would give them more space, right? More - autonomy. What do you think?"

What Porthos thought was mostly centred around the fact Athos had just said spare room, in the singular. That meant he wasn't counting Porthos' room as a spare. 

"I think it's a great idea," he said automatically. "If you can afford it?"

Athos shrugged. "Got to spend it all on something, haven't I?"

Now the immediate danger of being evicted seemed to have passed, some contrary urge made Porthos raise it himself. "I thought you might rather - you don't want me to go then?"

"Go? Go where?" Athos looked almost alarmed. "Do you want to go?"

"Well, no."

Athos relaxed again. "That's alright then." He went back to staring out the window, but then looked sideways at Porthos, through his hair. "I should possibly make it clear - there'll always be a place for you here, for as long as you want it. Hell, after everything you've done this place is more yours than mine anyway. As far as I'm concerned, it's your home too. If you want it to be?" 

Porthos stared at him in speechless amazement. "Do you mean that?" he stammered finally.

"Course I mean it," Athos said gruffly, folding his arms and looking uncomfortable. "And - you don't have to take on my stupid building projects, if you don't want to, either."

"They're not stupid," Porthos said quickly. "And I'll do whatever you want me to. You want cottages, you can have cottages. What about the main block? It's a bit too far gone to rebuild, but we could do something with the entrance to the cellar. Summerhouse, maybe?"

Athos looked hopeful. "You know, I've always wanted one of those massive Victorian-style glasshouses. You know the ones I mean? All wrought iron and giant ferns and wicker arm chairs. Do you think we could do that?"

"I reckon we could at that," Porthos smiled. "One glasshouse, coming up."

\--

The cellar took another hit that night, and over dinner and the rest of the evening they worked their way through three bottles of claret. By then they were sprawled together on the sofa, sleepy and amenable.

"Can I ask you something?" Porthos ventured, made bold by the wine.

Athos looked at him, wary but amused. "Yes?"

"What really happened here? With the fire?"

Athos sat up straighter, and examined the last bottle in the hope there might be a final glass still lurking at the bottom. There wasn't.

"It doesn't exactly paint me in a very good light," he murmured reluctantly. 

"Tell me?" Porthos coaxed, encouraged by the fact it hadn't been a flat no.

Athos sighed. He stayed silent for a while, then seemed to make up his mind. 

"Milady and I - neither of us were at home much. One day - she came back unannounced, not expecting to find me here. And I certainly wasn't expecting to see her." Athos hesitated. "She found me in bed with somebody else," he admitted quietly.

Porthos stared at him. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been this.

"That wasn't very nice."

Athos looked away, ashamed. "No. It wasn't. I told you it didn't reflect well on me."

Porthos considered this, then snorted. "What, as opposed to telling me you kill people for a living, you mean?"

Athos still wouldn't look at him, but Porthos caught the twitch of a smile. "I don't actually make a habit of that you know." 

"Still. Setting fire to a man's house seems a bit excessive," Porthos conceded. "She didn't find you in bed with her sister or something did she?"

"No." There was another long pause. "She - she found me in bed with another man."

"Oh." Porthos stared at him, but Athos wouldn't meet his eyes. "I see." He did see. He was quietly ecstatic in fact. "I can see why that might have pissed her off."

"I think if it had been another woman, Milady would have just hauled her out by the hair," admitted Athos. "But a man - it was the first time I'd ever seen her speechless. She didn't know how to react."

"So what happened?"

"She walked out. But not before setting fire to my drawing room curtains."

"I hope that's not a euphemism," Porthos smirked.

Athos gave a surprised laugh. "No. Nothing more than the exact truth." He sighed. "I was upstairs in the other wing. I had lamentably few smoke alarms, and the old dry timbers went up like tinder. The whole place was alight before I realised what she'd done."

"Everyone get out okay?" Porthos asked cautiously, but to his relief Athos nodded. "So then what happened?"

"She divorced me," said Athos dryly.

"Huh. Probably regretted torching the place at that point," Porthos said, and was gratified by the huff of laughter this provoked.

"What happened to the guy you were seeing?"

Athos finally turned to look at him, lips curving reluctantly into a half smile. "He was strangely reluctant to see me again after my wife tried to burn him to death."

"Some people have no staying power."

Athos' smile widened a little. "You don't mind, then?" he asked tentatively.

"Why should I mind?" 

Athos shrugged self-consciously, staring down at the carpet. "Some would."

"Well not me. Okay?" 

"Okay." Athos nodded, risking another look up. Porthos held his gaze, and for a moment they just regarded each other quietly, each tangled in his own thoughts.

Porthos was conflicted. He wanted to blurt out that he understood, that he too liked men, that actually he really liked Athos... But none of it would form into coherent sentences, and he had no idea if Athos liked him back in that way. 

Eventually Athos looked away, and cleared his throat. "Well, I think I'd better go to bed." He got to his feet, and gave Porthos a sweetly shy smile. "Now you know all of my secrets," he murmured.

He was almost at the door when Porthos sprang to his feet and took a determined step after him. 

"Athos!"

"Yes?" Athos turned back so quickly they almost collided, and for a second they stared at each other in confusion.

Porthos' nerve failed him. "Night," he said sheepishly.

Athos visibly relaxed, giving him a rather rueful smile in return, and nodding. "Goodnight Porthos." 

When he'd gone Porthos sank back down onto the sofa and put his head in his hands. 

"Bollocks," he muttered. " _Bollocks_. You stupid coward." Wishing he'd had the nerve to say something. Wishing he'd seized the moment, seized _Athos_ even, and just kissed him. It had felt, for a second, like there really had been a connection between them. And he'd muffed it. 

Tomorrow, Porthos decided. Tomorrow, when they were both more clear-headed, he would casually drop into conversation the fact that he was gay. See what Athos said, see where it went. 

He went up to bed feeling a little more positive, and quietly optimistic about what the morning would bring.

\--

Porthos was awake early the next day, and crept down to the kitchen to get the kettle on and breakfast on the go. Athos' bedroom door had been shut, but Porthos had decided to fry up some sausages for a change, and hoped the smell would entice him out.

It took him a couple of minutes to spot the note. Turning to place the butter dish on the table, he finally saw the folded sheet of paper propped against the vase of daffodils. 

Porthos picked it up warily, and slowly sank down onto a chair with a groan as he read it. 

_Porthos - sorry to run out on you like this, but had a call in the early hours and didn't like to wake you. Needed on an urgent job and had to leave immediately. Not sure when I'll be back, but will try and remember to text on way home. All the best, Athos._

Porthos sighed. Part of him wondered if it was true, or if Athos had just done a runner, having felt he'd revealed too much personal information for comfort. Hoping if it was a job, that it was another easy one, and that Athos would soon be back safely. 

The little black cat jumped up onto his lap, and Porthos scratched his ears obligingly. 

"Just you and me again Rog," he murmured. "Looks like we missed our chance this time, eh?"

\-- 

For the first few weeks, Porthos went about his business as usual. He had a new project to concentrate on now and gleefully roped Treville into the planning stages, frequently poring over sketches and floorplans over a pint in the pub. 

They decided on a single storey range comprising two cottages, a two-bedroom and a one-bedroom respectively. The planning application went in, and Porthos started making arrangements to have the rubble cleared in readiness, wishing he hadn't at one point made the decision to dump half the crap that came out of the west wing into this one.

The weeks trundled past, and it was only the planning approval letter dropping onto the doormat that made Porthos realise Athos had now been gone for over two months. His elation at being given the go ahead to make a start on the cottages was tempered by sudden worry. It had been a while since Athos had been away for this long, although it was by no means his longest absence yet. 

Porthos made a start on the building phase, but now he was acutely aware of each day that passed. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Athos was a capable and resourceful man, and that he had no reason to suppose anything had gone wrong. Athos had been away for longer than this before. Maybe it was just a complicated job.

Nevertheless, Porthos couldn't stop the nagging worry that something had happened. Two months became three. Spring slid into early summer, and Porthos wished that Athos was there to see the way things were progressing. He wished Athos was there full stop. 

Now he'd allowed himself to think about the man in a romantic way, Porthos found his imagination going into overdrive. In his head, they'd practically become a married couple, and it was a sobering thought to remember that when Athos did eventually return, he would be oblivious to all this heart-felt longing and happy world-building that had taken place in Porthos' head. He had to remind himself that just because Athos had once had an affair with a man it didn't mean he wanted another - or that he'd be remotely interested in Porthos. 

The fact that Athos had asked him to stay, and had openly spoken of the place as Porthos' home, was the one thing that gave him hope. Athos at least liked him as a friend, and in his more hopeful moments Porthos didn't think he'd imagined the beginnings of a spark between them. All he needed now was for Athos to come home, so he could find out if he'd been right.

But Athos didn't come home. Summer was by now in full bloom, and the cottages had their new roof neatly finished off and their windows in. Porthos could start on the fun part, decorating and fitting out the interiors - but he found he had little enthusiasm for it. Athos had now been away longer than he ever had before, and Porthos couldn't stop fretting. What if something had happened to him? The worst realisation of all was that if it had, Porthos would probably never know. The months would slowly turn into years, until one day he would finally wake up and know in his heart that Athos was never coming home. 

Trying to shake the intrusive and morbid thoughts out of his head, Porthos threw himself back into work with a will. He told himself firmly that one day Athos would just appear on the field path as usual and walk back into his life with his typical lop-sided smirk and probably a raging headache and interesting collection of new bruises. It wouldn't do for him to find Porthos slacking off and moping about the place.

He'd tried texting the number Athos had used to forewarn him of previous arrivals, but never got a response. When he'd finally plucked up the courage to try and call it, the number was simply unrecognised. Unhappy but helpless, Porthos could do nothing but wait.

\--

Porthos was working late into the light summer evening, painting the living room of one of the cottages with the door thrown open to let out the fumes when he heard the roar of an approaching motorbike.

Paint roller in hand, Porthos walked outside to see who was coming, his heart thumping painfully as his suspicions were confirmed. He'd seen this bike once before. Then, it had brought good news. Today, he suspected it had the capacity to shatter his world.

The rider had dismounted and as he lifted off his helmet Porthos nodded to him. "D'Artagnan." He swallowed. "Did Athos send you?"

D'Artagnan gave him a sober look, far removed from his insouciant self-confidence of before. "Can I come in? I need to talk to you."

"Is he dead?" Porthos blurted, unable to stand not knowing any longer. To his immense relief d'Artagnan shook his head.

"No. At least - not as far as I know. Not yet, anyway."

"Not yet?" Porthos yelped, and d'Artagnan sighed. 

"Look, can I come in? This is - kind've complicated."

Porthos stowed away his painting things and lead d'Artagnan into the house, grudgingly making him a cup of tea.

"Now," he declared, banging the two mugs down on the table. "Tell me what's going on."

D'Artagnan studied him for a moment. "How much do you know, about what Athos does?" he asked carefully.

Porthos shrugged. "I guess I sort of know the - the shape of it, if you like. He's never been big on the details."

D'Artagnan nodded slowly, blowing on his tea. Porthos glowered at him. "Get on with it. What's happened to him? Something has, right? Or you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah," d'Artagnan sighed. "Look, I'm not sure what your relationship with Athos is?"

Porthos shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I'm his builder, I guess."

D'Artagnan gave a surprised laugh. "Builder. Right."

"What? I am." 

D'Artagnan was silent for a minute, mustering his thoughts. "Look, there are - three of us. Who work fairly closely together. We all do individual stuff as well, but for planning and back up and that sort of thing, it's easier in a small group. Athos - Athos made us promise that if anything ever happened to him, that we'd let you know. And for the record, the only other standing arrangement like that involves my girlfriend. So forgive me for assuming you were rather more than just his builder."

Porthos stared at him, surprised and also touched, that Athos had thought to put such a thing in place. That he'd been thinking of him, even when he wasn't here.

"Alright, friend, then, I guess. Is that better?" Porthos said, and d'Artagnan smirked at him. Porthos glared, abruptly remembering the fact that d'Artagnan was here at all meant something had gone wrong. "For God's sake, tell me what's happened to him?" he pleaded. 

D'Artagnan sighed. "Look, as I'm sure you can imagine, it kind've originally meant - to let you know if he was killed. And Aramis and I, we had an argument about this, because Athos, as far as we know, is still alive. But the chances of ever getting him back are slim to none, and on those grounds I said we should tell you."

"Thank you," Porthos said hoarsely, revising his opinion of d'Artagnan cautiously upwards. "But what do you mean? Is he - he's not in a coma or something?"

"No, no nothing like that. He's - a prisoner," said d'Artagnan heavily. "He was on a job in Bolivia. Someone had been - muscling in, shall we say, on the territories of some of the smaller drugs cartels. Amalgamating them into something with altogether more influence."

"And the government wanted them stopped?" Porthos guessed. D'Artagnan looked embarrassed. 

"One of the other cartels, actually." Porthos gave him a flat look, and d'Artagnan winced. "I know, I know. But the end result was a positive one, regardless of who was paying, or at least it would have been, if Athos hadn't fucked it up and got himself captured."

"What did they need him for anyway?" Porthos asked. "I've seen some of those guys on the news, they've practically got their own armies."

"Sometimes one man on his own can achieve the result without the need for a pitched battle," d'Artagnan said. "A direct confrontation would have meant huge casualties on both sides, and more to the point, risked the product stocks. As far as they were concerned, Athos was an expendable commodity. "

"So he went in alone?" Porthos asked indignantly. 

"That was the plan, yes."

"To - what? Kill someone?" 

D'Artagnan shrugged. "As a last resort, yes. I think Athos' initial intention was to try and stage a coup, get the coca farmers and distributors to kick Rochefort out themselves." He scowled. "Should have just shot the bastard and got out cleanly if you ask me."

"Rochefort? Doesn't sound very Bolivian," Porthos observed.

"He's not, he's European. French. We've run across him before, but it was a surprise to find him popping up in South America. I guess that was another reason for subbing the job to Athos. Let us take care of our own."

"So he's a prisoner?" Porthos prompted impatiently.

"Yeah. We assumed when we lost contact that that was it, curtains, but apparently he's still alive."

"How do you know?"

"Aramis has got an informant on the inside. Swears Athos is still alive, although can't guarantee how long for."

"Well can't they help him?" Porthos demanded. 

"Not without exposing themselves, and they're not willing to do that."

"Well what about you? Can't you get him out?" Porthos retorted. "That's what you do, isn't it? Rescue people? You can't just leave him there in some hell-hole to die!"

D'Artagnan looked troubled. "Unfortunately, Rochefort knows us both by sight. We'd never get within a mile of the place."

"Then send someone else!"

"Who? We're not the army Porthos, we don't have huge resources. We all know and accept that if you screw up on a mission, help won't be coming. That's just the way it is. I'm sorry."

Porthos put his head in his hands. "Don't you care?" he asked wretchedly, "Athos is your friend, right? He must be."

"Yes, of course. If there was anything we could do - " d'Artagnan gestured helplessly. "But it would be a suicide mission for either of us to attempt it. Getting ourselves killed isn't going to help Athos, and he wouldn't thank us for it either."

"So you're just giving up?" Porthos accused.

"Show me an alternative," d'Artagnan shot back angrily. "We've known Athos for years, a lot longer than you. Don't you dare imply that we don't care about him!"

Porthos dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry," he conceded. "I didn't mean that." He thought for a while, then looked up again. "This Rochefort. He knows you by sight?" 

D'Artagnan nodded, and Porthos slowly nodded too. 

"He doesn't know me though?"

\--


	4. Chapter 4

"What's your point?" D'Artagnan looked at him blankly.

"Well - couldn't I go?"

D'Artagnan gave an incredulous laugh. "What are you going to do, knock on his door and ask if he wants an extension? The man lives in a fortress in the middle of a lake in the middle of God-knows how many thousand square miles of rainforest. I don't think he gets that many passing salesmen."

"You do know sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, right?"

D'Artagnan sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just - are you even trained? Please, tell me you're ex-SAS or something. I mean it. Do you know what you're doing? Can you do this, is it a serious offer? What's your background?"

Porthos hesitated, debating how honest to be. He wanted d'Artagnan to take him seriously, but he was still wanted by the police, and getting himself arrested wasn't going to help anybody. On the other hand, what d'Artagnan and the others were doing was hardly on the right side of the law either. He took a gamble.

"Armed robbery. If you must know." 

D'Artagnan gaped at him. "Okay," he managed eventually. "I confess, I wasn't expecting that." He frowned. "Does Athos know?"

"Yeah." 

D'Artagnan sighed. "Course he does," he muttered. "Why am I surprised." He looked at Porthos sceptically, but also with a reluctant new interest. "You really think you can do this?"

"What have I got to lose?"

"Your life," said d'Artagnan immediately. "Probably within about ten minutes of arrival. These people aren't playing. You have to understand the dangers. Are you really willing to risk your life for Athos?"

Porthos nodded slowly. "I wouldn't have much of one if it wasn't for him," he said quietly. "I have to at least try."

D'Artagnan gave in. "I suppose it's worth a shot. I really do hate the idea of abandoning him. Can you come now?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess." Porthos looked around, flustered. There was nothing he had to stay for, and Treville would keep an eye on the builders. "Just one thing though?"

"What?" D'Artagnan looked at him suspiciously.

"Do you know anyone who could look after my cat?"

\--

"Who the hell's this?"

After a hurried departure, Porthos had followed d'Artagnan in the van to a suburb on the outskirts of London, where an indignant Roger had been offloaded in his basket onto a young woman who looked just as startled by their arrival as the cat. From the fact that d'Artagnan kissed her briskly on the cheek Porthos assumed this was his girlfriend, although no introductions were performed.

From there, they went to an anonymous towerblock flat in a completely different suburb. Porthos wasn't sure what he'd been expecting - a high-tech office perhaps, in an expensive district of the city - but this was an ordinary residential apartment, with evidence of the transitory sleeping arrangements and associated mess of three men living in close proximity. Porthos caught himself thinking that the wallpaper could do with stripping.

Computer equipment was tangled around much of the living area, and sitting at one of the screens was the man who'd just given Porthos such an unfavourable welcome.

"This is Porthos," d'Artagnan explained, looking a bit sheepish. "He wants to help."

Porthos guessed this was Aramis, and gave him what he hoped was a professional and confident smile. It withered slightly under the glare it got in return, before Aramis appeared to dismiss him entirely and turned back to d'Artagnan.

"Are you insane?"

"Probably," d'Artagnan sighed, going to help himself to a mug of stewed coffee from a filter jug on the side. He didn't offer Porthos one.

"So you want to help?" Aramis asked acidly, when glaring at d'Artagnan's stubbornly turned back proved unfruitful. "And how exactly do you propose to do that?"

"I don't know," Porthos shot back, getting angry. "But the fact I'm willing to try at all already makes me a better person than you, so get off your high horse and tell me how you can sodding well help me find him."

Aramis stared at him for a second, then his expression softened a little. "Don't mistake us. We care about Athos more than you can imagine. But he wouldn't thank us for getting you killed."

"Well if I'm his only hope of rescue, if I fuck it up he'll never know, will he?" Porthos pointed out. "Come on. You don't know me from Adam. Let's face it, you don't give a monkey's if I get killed. Let me try."

"We're not so callous as to send a man to his death quite so easily," Aramis protested. He glanced at d'Artagnan, who'd risked rejoining them. "You obviously think it's worth a shot?" he sighed.

"Athos trusts him," d'Artagnan said. "That's good enough for me."

"Athos trusts him to renovate his house," Aramis said disgustedly "That's hardly the same thing." He looked at Porthos. "You know how to use a gun?" 

Porthos nodded. "Take a look at my rap sheet if you don't believe me."

"Oh, I have," Aramis declared, taking Porthos by surprise, and d'Artagnan as well, judging by his expression. "Isaac, isn't it?" Aramis continued, tone smooth but deadly sharp, and Porthos' heart sank a little as he realised what Aramis clearly thought him guilty of. But it could work in his favour.

"You know what I'm capable of then," he said levelly. "I can do this."

"You speak Portuguese? Spanish? Quechua, perhaps?" Aramis enquired.

Porthos swallowed. "No. I speak French though? He's French right, this Rochefort guy?"

Aramis threw a filthy look at d'Artagnan, clearly wondering how much he'd said. D'Artagnan cleared his throat and buried his face in his coffee mug. 

"I hardly think being able to order two beers and a baguette will see you through."

"Don't be bloody patronising!" Porthos glowered at him. "My mother was French, okay? I'm a bit rusty, but I reckon I can get by."

Aramis made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, but he seemed to have given in. 

"We can get you there," Aramis conceded heavily. "We can kit you out, and in the unlikely event you manage to get out again, with or without Athos, we can get you home. But once you’re inside...”

“I know, I know. No rescue, no back-up,” Porthos scowled. “I get it. I’m on my own.”

–

Two days later Porthos found himself in the sweltering heat of a tropical afternoon, feeling overwhelmed by the change in surroundings. The journey here felt like it had lasted weeks on its own and the last stretch in particular had been particularly trying, involving a seemingly endless drive in a jeep with fucked suspension, that took them over mountain roads so high he’d found himself dizzy and struggling to breathe.

To his relief they had eventually wound back down into a valley, arriving at a benighted town full of dirt and flies and people who stared at them with hard unwelcoming eyes. Aramis pointed out that they probably assumed the three foreigners were part of the cartel, which made Porthos more uneasy than ever.

Somewhat to his grateful surprise, given their initially unenthusiastic response to his proposal, Aramis and d’Artagnan had both come with him. This though, was the end of the road as far as they were concerned. Literally.

“Rochefort’s encampment is at the end of that road,” Aramis said, pointing down a track that barely deserved the description. “I’d guess about ten kilometres.” 

Porthos nodded silently. From here on he’d be on his own. 

D’Artagnan laid a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go through with this you know,” he said quietly. “There’s no shame in turning back.”

“I’m doing it,” Porthos said stubbornly. “I’m getting him out.” He gave them a reluctant smile. “Or I’ll die trying, I guess.”

It was Aramis’ turn to put an arm round his shoulders. “Best advice I can give you, if you do manage to get inside? Your best bet for getting out again will actually be to find Athos. He can help you, he’s done a lot of work out here over the years, he knows the country. He’ll be able to get you away and safe.”

Porthos nodded grimly. Now he was actually here it all seemed far more impossible a task, but there was no way he was telling them that.

“If I don’t come back...” he looked over at d’Artagnan, who guessed his thoughts.

“Don’t worry. Constance’ll take care of Roger.”

“Who the hell’s Roger?” Aramis asked, looking startled.

D’Artagnan clapped him on the back. “Don’t ask. Come on, we’d best get going.” He nodded to Porthos. “Good luck. And thank you.”

–

Porthos started trudging along the path, determined not to look back at the jeep rapidly receding into the distance on its way back to town. They’d decided he’d attract less attention by arriving on foot and this was the only approach road, but now he was away from the relative safety of the vehicle and the others Porthos felt uncomfortably exposed. For now, the fact of the dangerous task ahead and the fact he was heading towards people who would shoot him without a second thought was secondary to the fact he was walking along an increasingly narrow track hacked out between two walls of rainforest.

Horrible images plagued him of being eaten by a jaguar, or worse, of having some enormous spider drop on him from above. There were all sorts of scuttlings and rustlings and hootings coming from the surrounding vegetation, and he saw several giant webs wrapped around tree branches that made him feel sick, but the further he walked unmolested, the more he felt his courage gradually returning. 

A flock of parrots flew suddenly overhead, and Porthos stopped to watch them. There was beauty here as well as all manner of creeping horrors, and he took a moment to catch his breath, reminding himself that people lived here, that the landscape wasn’t necessarily trying to kill him. 

He’d walked a couple of miles when he heard the approaching engine. His first thought was that Aramis and d’Artagnan were coming back, but sounds in the jungle were disorienting and rounding a bend in the track Porthos realised it was actually a vehicle coming the other way – straight towards him.

With only seconds to make up his mind what to do, Porthos quickly shoved his way into the surrounding greenery, pushing far enough back that he was mostly hidden. He kept his eyes fixed on the track, determinedly not looking around him. A city boy by upbringing, he tried not to think about snakes or poisonous frogs or vampire bats or whatever horrors the jungle was no doubt full of.

A moment later he was glad he’d taken the precaution, as the very real threat he was facing was brought forcibly home to him. The truck that passed barely a couple of feet from his hiding place had contained three stern looking men in army fatigues, all armed with rifles – although what had really caught Porthos’ attention was the thing that had looked distinctly like a rocket launcher strapped to the back.

Fortunately they passed by without so much as a curious glance in his direction, although he didn’t dare creep out of hiding until the noise of the engine had completely died away. Then he flung himself back into the open, shaking himself vigorously and brushing off imaginary insects. 

A movement on his sleeve caught his eye and he looked down in frozen horror, praying it wasn’t a spider. To his relief it was just some sort of hideous bug, waddling ponderously down his arm, its thorny antennae waving curiously in the sunlight. He made to flick it off, then changed his mind and walked over to a nearby bush, letting it walk sedately onto a leaf.

“Conservation in action,” he grinned. “Do me a favour and tell your mates to stay the fuck away from me.”

–

It was a long, hot walk to the end of the trail and twice more Porthos had to dive into the undergrowth to hide from passing traffic. The first time was for another military-looking jeep heading towards town, but the second was for a big rattly open truck going in the same direction as Porthos, laden with men and crates. 

This latter got his hopes up and he increased his pace. If there was a large group arriving at any sort of check point he wanted to be in the middle of them. The brief glimpse he’d got suggested that while most had been Bolivian locals, there had at least been a smattering of black and caucasian faces as well. Porthos was banking on them not all knowing each other well enough to spot that he didn’t belong. If they did – well. His mission would be over before it had begun.

Eventually the trail opened out, and Porthos cautiously approached the edge of the trees. The sight that met his eyes took his breath away. Aramis had said that Rochefort’s base was on a lake, but Porthos hadn’t fully appreciated what that might mean. Some way out from the shore an imposing fortress rose up from a natural rocky outcrop. The lower stonework looked old, perhaps a remnant of the original defenceworks put up by the invading Spanish Conquistadors. Above that it had been added to more recently, with timber and even concrete buildings sprouting from the top in a hodge-podge of styles. 

“Bet he didn’t get planning permission for _that_ ,” Porthos muttered to himself, staring at the edifice with nervous awe. Around the base of the fort, a wide network of lighter buildings spread out across the water, and after staring at them for a while Porthos realised they were on pontoons. A floating town.

Connecting the whole thing to the mainland was one single walkway, also floating, but anchored at regular points by big timbers driven into the lakebed. Along this, people were coming and going apparently freely from the scatter of buildings along the shoreline, but a queue at the fortress end suggested some kind of sentry point.

Porthos wiped sweat and various small biting insects from his neck, grateful for the breeze that was blowing off the water. He really wanted to rest for a while and get his strength back, but the truck he’d seen earlier was unloading and he sensed this might be his only chance. He briefly considered waiting until dark and trying to swim out, but then remembered where he was and that the inviting looking lake was probably full of crocodiles and piranhas. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan had armed him with a variety of weapons, and Porthos took stock. He had a hunting knife strapped to his belt, an entirely carbon fibre Sig Sauer handgun in a holster at the small of his back, and a bag with various explosives and timers. He took a long drink of water from his canteen and stowed it away in the bag, shoving a couple of the magnetic explosives into his pockets. One of these should see to the door of whatever cell Athos was being kept in, very nicely.

After a further consideration, Porthos stripped off his shirt entirely and ripped a strip from the bottom before tying it around his waist so that it concealed the holster. The rag he tied around his head like a ratty bandana, hoping it made him look like a fairly average labourer. His plan, such as it was, was to pretend he was mute, and hoped that staring vacantly with an empty smile at anyone who shouted at him would at least be enough to prevent him being shot.

How he ever hoped to find Athos in a place this size he didn’t know, but one thing at a time Porthos decided. If he was arrested trying to get in, then worrying now about how he was going to find his way around afterwards was just wasted effort.

He hid his bag and spare equipment under a bush and carefully made his way around one of the outbuildngs so he could approach the truck from the direction of the lake. Hopefully they would think he’d been sent out to help.

Swallowing down the sharp taste of fear, Porthos sent up a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening and shambled slowly out into plain view. 

Heart thumping, Porthos forced himself to walk slowly across the open space towards the truck. To his relief there were no immediate cries of outrage, or demands to know who he was or what he was doing there. He kept his head down and tried to look bored. 

Acutely aware that there were men with rifles dotted about the place, Porthos also noted that they didn’t seem to be taking much notice of what was going on, preferring to lounge against the buildings smoking and talking amongst themselves. As he reached the tailgate of the truck the reason for this lax security became more apparent: the crates being unloaded merely contained provisions for the compound. 

Most of the men he’d seen on board had quickly vanished over to the fort, presumably to take over a shift change somewhere. The unloading of the supplies had been left to a handful of grumbling locals, who were consequently happy enough when Porthos turned up to help, and disinclined to ask questions. He picked up a sack of grain with a grunt of effort, and headed for the causeway.

Halfway across, having made the mistake of thinking this had all been surprisingly easy so far, Porthos finally got a good look at the checkpoint at the far end, and his heart sank. Each man that went in was having some kind of wand passed over him by the sentry, and Porthos guessed it was a metal detector. He’d expected them to find and possibly confiscate his knife, hoping that wearing it openly would deflect suspicion, but this meant they would also find the explosives.

On the plus side, the guards weren’t actually searching everyone as this would clearly have taken too much time, and Porthos had been careful to check that the people coming and going didn’t appear to be wearing any identification badges. He had perhaps a minute to decide what to do. He could chuck the devices into the lake, but that might be noticed. Right now nobody was paying him any attention, but he was in the middle of a slow-moving queue of people.

Passing one of the support poles, he manufactured a stumble and sent the heavy sack crashing to the walkway. The floating timbers creaked and bounced, and the men behind him shuffled past unsteadily, muttering curses at him. He didn’t understand the language, but the meaning was clear enough. He ignored them, crouching down and pretending to try and get a better purchase on the sack, whilst using it as cover to slip the explosives and timers out of his pockets. 

There was a gap between the slats of the causeway and the anchoring timber upright, and Porthos quickly pushed them down into hole, pleased to find there was a lattice below to rest them on. After a second’s deliberation he took off the hunting knife and left that there too, hurriedly straightening up and heaving the sack back onto his shoulder. 

The whole manoeuvre had only taken a few seconds, but it still took every inch of willpower not to quicken his pace or look round guiltily to see if he’d been noticed. His only weapon now was the gun, and he prayed it would go unnoticed. Aramis had told him it had been designed to slip through airport security, so hopefully it would escape the more basic measures here – just as long as they didn’t decide to search him.

There were only a few men in front of him now, and Porthos was soon standing under the masonry gateway to the fort. In an alcove to the right of the entrance he could see the assorted clutter of the sentry post equipment – including a laptop, a satellite phone and a gun rack. On a board above the makeshift workbench were pinned a selection of blurry headshots. Porthos was too far away to make out individual faces, but he guessed these were persona non grata, and wondered if Aramis and d’Artagnan were up there. Suddenly their caution seemed eminently more understandable. 

It was his turn for the metal detector, and he tried not to flinch as it was passed up and down his body. In contrast to the bored looking guards on the shore, the men here looked alert and suspicious of everything. Porthos gave them blank eyes and a weary face, trying to convey with expression alone that he’d done this a hundred times before and this sack was really heavy and could he get on with it please?

After what felt like an agonisingly long time but had probably only been a couple of seconds, Porthos got an impatient flick of the wrist indicating he should move on. 

Feeling sick with relief, he shuffled further into the courtyard, following the other men with their burdens. He’d done it, he thought jubilantly. He was in. 

_Yes,_ countered a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Athos at his driest. _And you’ve been forced to leave most of your kit outside, you have no idea how to find me, and now you’ve seen the level of security that we’ll have to get past assuming you manage to get me out in the first place. Do you really think if it had been do-able, Aramis and d’Artagnan wouldn’t have done it already?_

A movement above caught his eye, and Porthos looked up automatically. On a walkway overlooking the courtyard, a man stood looking down at the milling crowd. Rochefort, Porthos realised with a slight shock. Aramis had shown him pictures before they’d left London, of a weaselly looking white man in a range of tasteless suits. Now he was wearing army fatigues but there was no mistaking him. The pictures hadn’t done him justice, Porthos thought with a shiver. Even at this distance there was an air of malice about him the camera hadn’t captured. 

Rochefort turned in his direction, and Porthos hurriedly bowed his head and moved on. He hadn’t expected the man to be supervising things himself, but it belatedly occurred to him that if Athos was his prisoner Rochefort was probably _expecting_ a rescue attempt to be made. It certainly complicated things, but Porthos reflected he still had the advantage of being a stranger. 

Following the line of men in through an archway and down a colonnade into a large storeroom, Porthos considered his options. Now he knew what he was up against, the task ahead seemed virtually insurmountable. Nobody would blame him if he just turned around and walked out again. He could do it easily enough, he sensed. At this point, nobody was likely to stop him leaving. 

But he’d come this far. And one thing he had proved, there was no way the others could have. Right now, he was Athos’ only chance of survival.

At the back of the store was another door leading deeper into the fort. Porthos fidgeted with the sacks, rearranging the pile and awaiting his chance. At last he was briefly left alone, and dashed across to try the handle. Slightly to his surprise it opened under his hand. This, he thought, was truly the point of no return. With a deep breath he stepped through and closed it behind him.

The passage beyond was cool and dark, and Porthos edged along it with a wary haste. To be discovered here would mean ruin, he had no excuse for his presence and little chance of even making himself understood. It ended in an ante-room from which three more doors lead out: one to the left stood open, and Porthos could hear the distant clamour of voices through it. He guessed that would take him back towards to courtyard. Tentatively, he tried the door on the right, but it was locked. 

Swearing under his breath, he was about to try the middle door when the sudden echo of voices in the passage behind him made him jump. Hastily he turned the handle and breathed a silent prayer of relief when it gave under his hand. Without time to try and work out if the room was empty, he slipped through it quickly and closed the door behind him, leaning heavily on it to prevent anyone following him through. 

To his relief there was no attempt made to open it, instead the jangle of keys suggested the locked door was being opened instead. Trying to calm his rapid breathing, Porthos inspected the chamber he now found himself in. It was largely bare, a wooden chest and table to one side, a small window giving light high up in the other wall. 

There was another door leading off directly opposite and Porthos’ first instinct was to go through it, putting as much distance between him and the unseen voices as possible. Then he reconsidered. He had no real idea of the layout of the fort – the best aerial plans Aramis had been able to get hold of suggested four ranges around a central courtyard, but with no room layout or handy sign saying ‘this way to the dungeon’ he was working blind. The one thing he could be reasonably sure of was that wherever Athos was, it would be behind a locked door.

Taking a deep breath, Porthos cracked the door open again, listening carefully. All seemed quiet, and pushing the door wider he saw the locked door now standing open. Knowing there was a huge risk he’d run into the men on their way back, he gritted his teeth and plunged through the door.

Porthos found himself in another passage, narrower than the first and sloping gradually downwards. Slit windows at widely spaced intervals gave him glimpses of the lake, and he realised the passage must be inside the walls of the old fort itself. The further he went without passing any doors or forks in the passage the more his heart sank as he realised how exposed he was but he’d come too far to turn back now, and he pressed on with a grim determination. 

At least he was armed, he thought, remembering the gun tucked at the small of his back, the holster unpleasantly damp with his sweat. If he was accosted, he could at least try and bluff his way out with the threat of it. Despite what he’d confidently told Aramis, Porthos wasn’t at all sure he could actually shoot someone in cold blood.

Finally the passage came to an end, opening into a chamber that seemed to be some form of recreation room. Two sets of bunk beds lined opposite walls, the bedclothes mostly rumpled and messy. The clutter of off duty hours filled the centre of the room, dirty magazines and empty tequila and beer bottles from what Porthos could see. 

In a way it reminded him oddly of the cluttered flat in London, except that had been computing magazines and bottles of supermarket Cabernet. Maybe all the porn had been on the computer in their case Porthos thought, allowing himself a brief grin. His moment of levity was interrupted by the sound of approaching voices from the room beyond, and he had a moment of panicked indecision. He could retrace his steps and flee ahead of them back up the passage – but that wouldn’t get him anywhere, and his instincts were telling him he was on the right track. This felt like a guard room, and the locked doors reinforced the impression there was something to hide here. 

Porthos looked around frantically for somewhere to hide. There was no room under the bunks, and in any case even if he managed to squeeze himself in, he would be spotted at once. The only other option was to hide in plain sight – make like he belonged here, and pray that the men approaching weren’t necessarily the occupants of the room.

He grasped the frame of the nearest bunk and swung himself up onto the top bed, rolling to face the wall and pulling the blanket over him, trying to even out his breathing. Not a moment too soon, as behind him Porthos heard two sets of footsteps enter the room through the far door.

He closed his eyes and feigned sleep, trying to project the image of an off-duty and dog-tired member of the security staff. 

Halfway across the room he heard them pause, the tone of their conversation changing, and despite not comprehending their words, Porthos sensed he’d been noticed. He forced himself to lie still, to manufacture a little snore. They hadn’t sounded surprised or outraged, in fact one of them sniggered, and Porthos guessed they were probably just bitching at a colleague having a nap when they were hard at work. Maybe they thought he was slacking off.

To his immense relief, they moved on and walked back out into the passage, closing the door behind them. Porthos had just relaxed a fraction when the next noise that reached his ears made him stiffen again with alarm. The click of a key turning in the lock.

Porthos sat up, horribly convinced that he’d been rumbled and having locked him in they were even now fetching help. But surely, he thought, if they’d suspected him they would have confronted him? No, more likely they assumed that if he belonged in this room then he had a key of his own. Probably thought they’d walked right past him on the way in; that he’d been locked in here to begin with. 

Porthos clambered thankfully out of the bunk and dropped to the floor. For the moment he was safe, if technically trapped. But he had some experience with picking locks, and hopefully would be able to get out again in a pinch. First though, he needed to see what was in the room beyond, that the guards, if guards they were, had come down here to so briefly check on.

Another passage, shorter this time, and another ante-room with a table holding a large pitcher of water and some tin mugs. Beyond, the passage continued before ending abruptly in a blank wall. Off this short stretch opened three doors, each with a metal grille set into them, and Porthos sensed he’d reached his destination – unless there were similar cells in every wing of the fort he realised, and scowled. 

The first door was firmly locked and didn’t even rattle under his touch. Hesitating only for a second, Porthos slid open the metal grille and peered into the cell beyond. As his eyes got used to the gloom he jumped slightly, realising that at least four accusing faces were staring back at him. A babble of indignant Spanish met his ears and staring just long enough to ascertain that none of them had been Athos, he slid the portal shut again.

The second cell proved to be completely empty and Porthos sighed irritably, slamming the grille closed. There was no sound coming from the last cell and he wondered gloomily what the odds were against finding Athos this quickly anyway. He reckoned he’d been inside the fort less than half an hour, although the strain on his nerves made it feel a lot longer. 

Feeling almost more nervous than he had since arriving here, Porthos opened the final hatch. 

The cell was lighter than the first he’d looked into, two barred windows at high level pouring an almost blinding level of heat into the space, after the dim passages he’d been walking through. 

Squinting into the sunlight, Porthos made out a limp figure lying on a narrow bed on the far side of the cell. Bearded and rather ragged, the man had an arm thrown over his eyes and Porthos wasn’t sure at first if it was Athos or not. But the pale wrist emerging from the frayed sleeve already set him apart from the rest of the inhabitants he’d seen barring Rochefort himself, and Porthos’ heart skipped hopefully.

“Athos?” he hissed. The man on the bed gave no sign he’d heard, and Porthos worried suddenly that Athos might have been badly mistreated, or even be ill. 

He risked raising his voice. “Athos!”

Finally the figure stirred, lowering his arm and turning sightly. Porthos saw with a jolt that it _was_ Athos, but he looked faint and distracted, and Porthos was suddenly faced with the possibility that Athos would be in no fit state to assist with their escape. How much harder would it be to get out of here, if Athos was unresponsive and had to be carried?

Alarmed and increasingly conscious that the longer he spent here the greater his chances of being discovered, Porthos rapped sharply on the door. “Athos!”

Athos frowned, to Porthos’ relief sitting up slightly, as he tried to identify who was calling to him.

“Over here!”

Athos blinked as if trying to focus, peering at the door with a deepening frown. “Porthos?” he said weakly, sounding bemused.

“Yes!” Porthos gripped the bars of the viewing hatch and pressed his face to the opening. “It’s me. I’ve come to get you out.”

Athos sank back down against the pillow of rough sacking with a sigh. “I’m dreaming, then.”

“What? No! No you’re bloody not, I’m right here. Athos!”

Looking confused, Athos passed a hand over his face as if trying to force himself to concentrate, and looked back towards the door. “Porthos?” Sounding, to Porthos’ relief, stronger now.

“Yes! Look, are you okay? Can you stand? I need to get this door open, do you know where the key is?”

Athos shook his head vaguely. “The guard has one, when he brings my food,” he said. “I think Rochefort has another.” His voice was low, as if talking to himself, and Porthos suspected he still thought he was. 

It was depressing news. He’d held out hope the keys would be hanging on a convenient hook for him to pinch. But he could probably still get the door open, given enough time. The only question was whether he’d get it.

Porthos rattled the door experimentally. There was no give in it and it opened outwards, so there was no chance he could burst it open.

"Don't suppose you could use that bench you're lying on to ram this thing open?" Porthos suggested without much hope. If it had been that easy Athos would have done it already, and besides, in his current condition he barely looked capable of standing, never mind picking up heavy wooden furniture.

In answer, Athos groggily sat up and Porthos saw with a sinking heart that he was chained to the wall, his ankles and one wrist in metal shackles.

"I can't even reach the door," Athos said, then frowned. "Porthos? It's really you?"

"Yes," Porthos declared, sounding rather exasperated. "Look, don't go anywhere." He disappeared from the grille and Athos slumped back with a confused sigh. He was still more than half convinced he'd hallucinated the whole exchange.

Porthos hurried back into the guardroom and rifled the cluttered belongings in search of something he could use to tumble the lock. Armed with a long thin knife, some wire, a meat skewer and a thin strip of metal he'd pried off the frame of one of the bunks, he ran back to Athos' cell and set about picking the mechanism.

Frowning with concentration, lower lip caught between his teeth, he crouched in the passage and tried to feel his way in. It was a fairly basic lock, but old and heavy and the metal lath suddenly snapped under the pressure and sliced open his thumb.

"Ow! Bollocks." He sucked the offending digit indignantly, straightening up for a moment to work out the kinks in his back. He'd been going to ask Athos how often the guards came round, but Athos seemed to have fallen back into a doze.

"Lot of help you are," Porthos grumbled to himself, trying to mask his concern. "You could at least be encouraging."

Kneeling back in front of the lock he tried again, forcing himself to be patient. Eventually he was rewarded as the lock clicked over and he dragged the door open triumphantly.

"Athos! Athos, shift yourself. Time to go." Porthos dropped to the ground in front of him and shook Athos' shoulder lightly.

He blinked awake slowly, peering at Porthos in bemusement.

"Yes it's me, yes I'm really here, no you're not dreaming," Porthos declared briskly. "Does that about cover it?"

Athos hauled himself painfully into a sitting position. "Are you absolutely sure?" he drawled. "Because unexpected shirtless rescue does rather fall into the category of fantasy."

Porthos snorted. "I'm glad to see you're not completely addled. Can you stand?"

"I think so. There hasn't been much call for it lately." Athos levered himself up, and after swaying alarmingly for a second, managed to stay on his feet. "Well. Apparently I can. Although given that I'm tethered to the wall, I'm not sure where it gets us. Unless you have keys?"

Porthos shook his head. "I picked the lock. I guess I could do these too given enough time, but - " he eyed the wall speculatively. "I'm not sure how long we've got. Here, let's have a go at this." He took hold of the slack in the chain and tried to yank the fixing pin out of the wall.

"I already tried that," Athos pointed out, and Porthos grunted.

"Yeah. But you ain't me." He untied his shirt from his waist and wrapped the material around his hands, took a firmer grip on the metal chain, braced one foot on the wall, and heaved.

It took him three attempts, the veins standing out in his neck and shoulders as he strained with the effort, but the metal pin finally came loose with a teeth-jarring grinding noise and he toppled backwards onto his arse.

"Colour me impressed." Athos gave him a hand back up, and Porthos grinned at him.

"Told ya." He looked at the chains still binding Athos' ankles and left wrist. "Can you walk in those?"

"Just about, if I have to. Don't ask me to run though."

Porthos sighed. "We need to find something to get them open. I'm fairly sure running's going to be a major feature sooner or later." He turned to lead the way out of the cell, but Athos clasped his arm.

"You haven't told me what the hell you're doing here yet." 

Porthos stared at him, taken aback by the thread of anger behind the words. "Rescuing you. What the bloody hell does it look like?"

"Are you here on your own?" Athos asked incredulously.

"Only way I could get in." 

Athos seemed temporarily speechless and Porthos took the opportunity to turn away. "Come on. We have to get out of here."

"I'm assuming you have a plan?" Athos murmured, following him awkwardly down the passage, the chains impeding his movement.

"Not as such," Porthos admitted through gritted teeth. "Not dying pretty much sums it up."

"Do you at least have back up?" Athos ventured.

"Nah. Not until we get out of here, anyway. Aramis and d'Artagnan are waiting in town. Till then we're on our own."

Athos sighed. "I'm going to bloody kill them," he muttered.

They reached the anteroom and Athos stopped briefly at the table with the pitcher, pouring and drinking three mugs of the lukewarm water without stopping. Wiping water from his beard, he leaned against the table, panting heavily. "That's better."

"Didn't they give you enough?" Porthos asked worriedly. Athos shook his head.

"Just enough to keep me alive. Same with food. The weaker I was kept, the less of a threat I could be," he explained.

Porthos growled with wordless anger and frustration. "Somebody's going to pay for this."

"Let's just get out of here," Athos said. "The fewer people we engage with, the safer we'll be."

Porthos nodded. "Just one more door to sort out first," he admitted, and lead the way through the guardroom to start picking the lock barring the way out.

While he worked, Athos prowled round the room and when Porthos straightened up with an exclamation of triumph, he turned to discover Athos had shed his rather ragged clothes for a fresh khaki t-shirt and combat trousers that he'd found in a drawer.

"I'm sure they won't mind," Athos smirked. "That was quick," he added, nodding at where the outer door now stood open.

"It's all coming back to me now," Porthos grinned, brandishing his makeshift toolkit. "You never lose the knack once you've got it."

"In that case, how about opening one more?" Athos murmured, and nodded back in the direction of the other occupied cell.

"That's sweet an' all, but we really don't have time," Porthos objected. "We should get going before we're noticed."

"I wasn't being sentimental," Athos said dryly. "The more escaped prisoners they have to contend with, the better our chances of escape."

Grumbling at the additional delay but seeing the logic in it, Porthos did as Athos suggested. A babble of voices broke out as the door swung open, and Athos held a brief conversation in Spanish with the occupants that Porthos couldn't follow at all. Unable to contribute he drifted back out into the guardroom, and there caught the unmistakeable sound of approaching footsteps.

"Athos!" he hissed, darting back inside. "Someone's coming!"

This was relayed to the other prisoners who immediately went on the offensive, grabbing anything they could find as a weapon and charging down the corridor towards the oncoming guards. Athos again grabbed Porthos' arm, preventing him from immediately following them, and a second later the sound of gunfire came echoing back to them, shockingly amplified by the stone walls.

More shots, more shouting, then the sound of running feet, but receding this time. Athos cautiously headed up the passage with Porthos at his heels until they came to a crumpled pile of bodies lying in the way. One was clearly one of the guards, seemingly bludgeoned to death, two were prisoners, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds and way beyond help.

Porthos felt sick, and not just from the sight of death. "You knew that would happen," he accused in a low voice. "You used them."

"They'd have been shot anyway," Athos said coldly, crouching down to go through the dead guard's pockets. "At least this way they had a fighting chance. Some got away. When the alternative's certain death, you'll take even the most appalling odds. I would have."

"You still let them go first."

"You think I could have stopped them?" Athos gave a sudden yelp of discovery and straightened up with a bunch of keys in his hand, trying them one after another in the lock of his shackles.

"You sent unarmed men against soldiers with guns!" Porthos blurted.

Athos succeeded in unlocking his cuffs and threw them down against the stone floor, the force of it the only outward sign of his anger.

"Those men were locked up for raiding a village that was harvesting Rochefort's coca leaf," Athos said. "Every man in that room was a cold-blooded murderer. Forgive me if I don't mourn them. Now are we leaving, or did you want to question my moral judgements for a bit longer? Besides, if you were that concerned why didn't you go first? I'm assuming that gun you're toting isn't just for show?"

Porthos stared at him. He'd genuinely forgotten about the gun, tucked into the holster at his back. He touched it now, rather self-consciously, and abruptly pulled his shirt back on to cover it. He didn't know what to say, but Athos had clearly already decided the conversation was over, and was walking away up the passage.

Biting off a curse, Porthos hurried after him. Catching Athos up as he reached the door at the top of the passage, thankfully left open in the chaos, the irritable words Porthos was about to utter died on his lips as they heard footsteps approaching rapidly from both the direction of the courtyard, and up the original passage Porthos had arrived through.

“This way,” Porthos said quickly, grabbing Athos and towing him towards the remaining door. “I think there’s a way through, I was here earlier.”

“You think?” Athos echoed, but let himself be shoved through the door without complaint. Porthos slammed it behind them and hurried across to the opposite door, offering a silent prayer of thanks when it opened under his touch.

They both hastily piled through, only to draw up short in startled surprise to find the room occupied.

A slender young woman dressed in what looked to Porthos like ridiculously expensive designer clothes, had leapt to her feet in shock.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

Porthos held out a calming hand, realising how it must look. “We won’t hurt you,” he said, only then registering two things – that the woman looked considerably more angry than frightened, and that she’d spoken in French rather than Spanish.

“Please. You have to help us,” Athos entreated.

“I have to do no such thing. What in the name of God are you doing up here?” 

Athos gestured at a door on the far side of the room. “Anne, please – let us go through, just deny having seen us, that’s all we ask of you.”

She glared at him, and Porthos looked from one to the other in confusion before the penny dropped.

“You’re Aramis’ contact!” he blurted.

Anne gave him a sour look, but didn’t deny it, and Athos tried again. 

“Please. We’re not asking you to endanger yourself. Just turn a blind eye for a second, that’s all,” Athos pleaded, conscious of raised voices getting closer back the way they had come.

Anne gave an exasperated sigh and gave in. “Go,” she said shortly, and Athos gave her a relieved nod of thanks, before pushing Porthos hastily across the room and our the other side. 

“Do you trust her? Who was that?” Porthos panted, as they ran through a succession of rooms considerably more opulently decorated than the rest of the fort. He hadn’t expected to find a woman here, certainly not one as petite and elegant as Anne.

“Anne? I’m not sure we have any choice,” Athos pointed out, running alongside him. He was keeping up, but frequently had to steady himself on walls or pieces of furniture, and Porthos kept shooting him anxious glances. “And she’s Rochefort’s partner.”

“As in girlfriend, or business partner?” Porthos asked in surprise.

“Both, as far as I know.”

Porthos made a face. “What’s her connection to Aramis?”

Athos gave him a wry smile. “I’ve never quite liked to ask. I think they met when he was on an assignment once. He’s never volunteered the gruesome details, for which I am heartily thankful.”

They raced up a narrow staircase, at the top of which Athos turned left without hesitation. “Come on.”

“Oi! Who’s in charge of this rescue anyway?” Porthos demanded, feeling increasingly like a spare wheel. He knew Aramis had recommended letting Athos take charge once he’d found him, but after all he’d been through it felt a little grating.

Athos stopped. “My sincerest apologies,” he said sarcastically. “I didn’t realise you knew your way around. Please, don’t let me stop you leading us out of here.”

Porthos glared. “You know it’s not too late for me to stick you back in that cell,” he muttered. Athos glanced back and Porthos was both surprised and relieved to see that he actually looked amused. He sighed, and gestured for Athos to lead on. “After you, then.”

Up here they were back in the more functional part of the fort, the heat of the afternoon like a blow to the face after the dim interior.

They stepped out into an open courtyard and blinking in the bright light Porthos bumped into the back of Athos. At first Porthos assumed he’d exhausted himself with the steep climb and needed a minute to catch his breath – until he saw the man holding a gun on them.

“Rochefort,” Athos groaned. 

Stepping out of a pool of shadow, Rochefort gave them a look of sardonic pleasure at having apprehended them himself while the rest of the fort was in turmoil. They could hear the shouts down below, and the occasional gunshot as the rest of the escapees were hunted down. Porthos had a moment of guilt at the way Athos had set them running like sacrificial hares, but most of his current anxiety was focussed on the pistol pointing at them from a couple of metres away.

“Athos.” Rochefort looked disgusted. “I might have known you’d be behind all this chaos.”

“I can’t claim all the credit,” Athos conceded, stepping carefully away from Porthos, too slowly to be perceived as a threat. Porthos noted the way Rochefort’s gun swung instinctively to cover him and realised what Athos was doing. Rochefort only had one gun, and there were two of them. And he had a gun too, didn’t he? Porthos experienced a sick moment of near-panic and wished he’d taken the opportunity earlier to give the gun to Athos. At least he’d know what he was doing with it. Porthos had had a couple of fast lessons from Aramis, but then it wasn’t the technicalities that were worrying him.

“Stay where you are!” Rochefort ordered sharply.

Athos raised a hand in harmless apology, but kept walking over to the parapet, where he leaned weakly. “Sorry. I need a rest. Not used to so much exercise, thanks to you.”

“I should have shot you months ago,” Rochefort growled. He was still keeping half an eye on Porthos, but assuming them both unarmed most of his attention remained on Athos, who was slumped in what looked like near-collapse. “Stand up! I want you to face me when I shoot you.”

“Well that’s not much incentive for me, is it?” Athos complained. Porthos slipped his fingers around the gun and drew it out of the holster behind his back, inch by inch. Athos carefully wasn’t looking at him, and Rochefort was levelling his gun. 

“I think it’s time I put you out of my misery, don’t you?”

“Drop it.” Porthos raised his own gun, holding it steadily. Rochefort’s expression when he saw it was one of almost comical astonishment, fading into exasperation.

“Who are you?” he asked irritably. 

“A friend,” said Porthos. “Drop the gun.”

Rochefort narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said carefully. “I don’t think I will.”

“What?” Porthos stared at him. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Rochefort looked consideringly from Porthos to Athos and back again. “No,” he repeated. “Shall I tell you why? Because I think if it had been Athos holding that gun, he’d have shot me by now. Which tells me two things. That he hasn’t got one, and you can’t do it.”

“I bloody can.” Porthos gestured with the gun, realigning his aim from Rochefort’s chest to his face. “Put the gun down or I’ll blow your head off.”

Rochefort tutted. “Oh, I don’t think you will.” He walked slowly towards Porthos, not taking his eyes off him. “Or you would have already. What are you waiting for?” Another step, until the barrel of the gun was pressing into the flesh of his forehead. “Shoot me, why don’t you? Look me in the eye, and end – my – life.”

Porthos’ hand was shaking, and he swallowed, feeling sweat stinging in his eyes. With a cluck of disgust, Rochefort reached up and pulled the gun out of his hand, turning away dismissively. 

Porthos sagged, and looked miserably over at Athos, expecting anger and derision. Athos just held his gaze for a second and gave him a rueful smile before straightening up to face Rochefort.

“You know, I’ve changed my mind,” Rochefort declared conversationally. “I don’t think I’ll shoot you. I think I’ll have you skinned, and then hung in the lake for the crocodiles.” 

“In that case could you do it sooner rather than later, so I don’t have to listen to any more of your banal conversation?” Athos asked politely, and Rochefort raised the gun again, stiffening with indignant rage.

The roar of anger took him by surprise, and Rochefort had only half turned when Porthos ploughed into him with the force of an enraged bull and drove him bodily away from Athos. They hit the low parapet at the same time, and Porthos had a sudden dizzying view of the courtyard below before Athos seized him by the belt and dragged him backwards.

With nobody to hold on to him, Rochefort toppled on over the edge and fell out into space. There was a short scream, and then a terminally silencing thud.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other, then Athos gingerly peered over the edge, wincing at the sight that met his eyes. He turned back to Porthos, who made a face.

“Splat?”

“Splat,” Athos confirmed with a sigh. Porthos made to look over the edge, but Athos stopped him with an outstretched arm. “You don’t need to see that,” he said quietly.

Porthos looked shaken. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

“Then you have my eternal gratitude for breaking the habit of a lifetime,” Athos said, and patted him commiseratingly on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here before all hell breaks loose. It won’t take them long to get up here.”

Porthos still hesitated though, and Athos guided him away from the edge. 

"No one will miss him," he murmured. "Trust me."

About to make their way down the opposite steps, both men froze as a figure emerged from the doorway behind them. When they saw it was Anne, Athos relaxed but Porthos looked more wretched than ever. 

"I'm sorry," he offered guiltily, and she frowned.

"What's going on? What's all the noise?"

"Rochefort's dead," said Athos flatly, and she stared at him.

"Good." 

Her hard-hearted reaction made Porthos blink, and he glanced at Athos. "You weren't kidding," he muttered faintly. 

Anne had taken a phone out of her pocket and Athos started edging towards the exit, just in case she was summoning back up. 

"So - you're okay with it then?" 

Anne looked up at them and frowned. "You've saved me a job, frankly."

"Who are you calling?" Athos asked. It had suddenly occurred to him that if he could get her to call Aramis all this could end here, and they could be on their way home in hours.

"Louis."

"Who the hell's Louis?"

She looked at him. "My husband."

"Husband?" Athos and Porthos exchanged a startled look. "I thought you and Rochefort - ?"

"You think I was with that animal for the good of my health?" Anne asked sourly. "No, Louis and I have been planning this for months. We're taking over Rochefort's concern. Louis is, hopefully, on his way here with a considerable number of men to take control. And you've just seen to it there'll be no resistance."

Athos gazed heaven-wards and spread his hands helplessly. "I give up," he declared. "I'm going to retire, and raise goats."

"So you owe us then?" Porthos ventured to Anne, ignoring Athos in favour of sticking with the crucial point. "We can go, like?"

Anne gave them both a hard look, then shrugged. "I won't help you. But neither will I stop you, as long as you don't interfere." This last was directed at Athos, who looked like he might be about to object to her plans.

"Mate. Come on. Don't look a gifthorse in the mouth, right?" Porthos hissed, grabbing Athos by the arm and dragging him towards the stairs. Athos finally let himself be persuaded, and they quickly disappeared from view.

"Is it so bad?" Porthos asked, as they made their way circumspectly through a maze of narrow passages back towards the main gate. "Her taking over, I mean?"

"Potentially worse than Rochefort," Athos admitted. "She's smarter than him for one thing, and if they're bringing in more troops the operation's only going to get bigger."

"Well there's nothing you can do about it," Porthos said sternly, afraid that Athos was going to derail their escape with some idea about finishing his original mission.

"No, maybe you're right," Athos conceded with a sigh. "I think the scale of this is beyond one man now." He gave Porthos a faint smile and a nod of acknowledgement. "Or even two."

"Then let's get out of here," Porthos said with relief. "D'you think they'll let us through the gate with no trouble now?"

Almost before he'd finished speaking, a fresh alarm was raised and the sound of pounding boots came thudding in their direction. Athos strained to make out the words that were being shouted, and went pale.

"They're looking for us," he reported grimly.

"What! What happened to not stopping us from leaving?" Porthos demanded.

"She told us her plans," Athos reminded him. "It's possible this Louis was less keen on us being allowed to walk out of here with that knowledge."

"So what do we do?" 

"We run," Athos said. "And we punch anything that tries to stop us."

This approach proved remarkably effective, and they fought their way through to the main gate and out onto the causeway, leaving a trail of stunned and rather surprised guards sprawling in their wake.

Now though, a fresh body of men was pouring out of doorways all around, summoned back from the hunt for the other escapees, and bullets were soon whistling around them.

Halfway down the pontoon, Porthos abruptly dropped to his knees and started fumbling beneath the planks.

"Now what are you doing?" Athos cried, almost falling over him.

"You wanted a plan," Porthos panted. "I've got a fucking plan. Keep going, I'll catch you up."

With no breath left to argue Athos gave up and kept running, Porthos following him a few seconds later, the planks swaying alarmingly under his feet.

He joined Athos on the shore, throwing himself down to the grass and fumbling with something in his hands.

"Is that a timer?" Athos asked incredulously, dropping down beside him, too exhausted to run any further. The first of their pursuers were starting to run out along the causeway now, and it all looked rather hopeless.

Porthos grinned at him. "Now that's a very deep philosophical question you've asked there," Porthos said. "Is a timer still a timer when it's set to zero seconds? Or is it - " he twisted the dial round and pressed down on the activation button. "A trigger?"

\--


	5. Chapter 5

Halfway along the causeway an enormous explosion ripped the decking and bridge supports to matchwood, hurling bodies into the lake on both sides. Stunned and impressed, Porthos stared wide-eyed at the carnage, his ears ringing from the noise. "Cool."

Athos scrambled back to his feet. "How much explosive did you use?" he asked faintly, shaking bits of wood out of his hair. 

Porthos shrugged. "I dunno. I'm new to this. All of it?"

Everyone's attention seemed to be focussed on pulling those still alive out of the water as quickly as possible, and judging by the threshing going on Porthos guessed Rochefort hadn't been joking about the crocodiles. 

They took advantage of the distraction to sidle away, and Porthos retrieved his bag from the bushes where he'd left it. Debating their next move, the noise of an approaching engine drew their attention and worried it might be the first of Louis' fresh troops, they edged around a nearby hut to find that a single jeep had arrived with a lone driver. 

As the man climbed out, Porthos marched up to him, tapped him on the shoulder and neatly knocked him out. The new arrival slumped to the grass with nothing but a surprised squeak, and Athos patted Porthos on the back.

"Nicely done," he said and promptly climbed up into the driver's seat before Porthos could.

Porthos hastily ran around to jump into the passenger side, as Athos already had the jeep moving over the grass.

"The road's over there," Porthos pointed out, as Athos seemed to be driving in entirely the wrong direction.

"I know," Athos told him. "But it's a single track all the way into town. Do you really want to meet Louis and his men coming the other way?"

"I thought it was the only road?" Porthos shouted over the noise of the engine. He was getting more alarmed by the second, as Athos seemed to be driving directly towards the lake.

"But not the only option," Athos called back, eyes anxiously searching the treeline. 

"Tell me the other option's not swimming?" Porthos demanded, his own eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching water.

"You might want to duck," Athos yelled, abruptly yanking the wheel to the right.

Before Porthos could question this instruction his face was suddenly full of shredded foliage as the jeep plunged into what seemed to Porthos to be virgin forest.

After they'd been moving for several moments without hitting a tree, Porthos conceded this might at least be more of a viable route than it at first appeared, but they were hurtling through nothing more than a green tunnel. If anything, Athos was going faster than ever, and Porthos resisted the urge to screw his eyes shut.

"What the fuck is this?" he shrieked. "This isn't a road!"

"Did at any point I claim it was a road?" Athos retorted, gripping the wheel with a grim determination and keeping his foot flat to the floor. "It's a logging track. They mostly use mules."

"In what century?" Porthos asked disbelievingly.

"I'd say it's not been used for a few weeks," Athos conceded, and Porthos stared at him incredulously, hanging onto the frame of the jeep for dear life and wishing he had a seatbelt. 

"Weeks?"

Athos almost smiled. "Stuff grows quickly round here. You can practically see it moving."

"Tell me you know where you're going?" Porthos pleaded.

"I know where I'm going," Athos repeated obligingly, and Porthos glared at him. 

"Thanks. Now I feel lots better," he said acidly. But on the plus side they were putting more distance between them and the men who'd been shooting at them with every second that passed, and that could only be a good thing. 

Porthos hunkered down in his seat to avoid the worst of the foliage whipping past, and tried to convince himself that Athos knew what he was doing. 

After several hair-raising miles Athos turned sharply off the main track and urged the jeep up a steep and stony path that Porthos would have sworn needed climbing gear to even attempt.

“You’ve been up here before, right?” he ventured, hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

“Sure,” said Athos, which reassured him for all of the three seconds it took Athos to add, “on a horse though.”

“Is it too late in life for me to convert to Catholicism?” Porthos asked. “I somehow feel the need to start crossing myself.”

“Have some faith,” Athos chided. “I’m sure we’re not the first people to drive up here.” 

“Did any of the others make it down again though?” Porthos asked gloomily. 

Athos didn’t dignify this with an answer, although Porthos took heart from the fact there was a faint smile on his lips. He had a sneaking suspicion Athos was actually enjoying this.

The land they were driving through now was climbing out of the lowland forest, and Porthos found he was taking in scenes close to devastation. He hadn’t thought much of it when Athos had described the path as a logging track, but the results of the industry were plain to see with vast swathes of the forest cleared away, leaving nothing but depressing stumps. 

Porthos fell silent, sobered by the blasted vistas opening up around every curve in the track. Eventually though, it occurred to him that there wasn’t actually any active tree felling going on and he turned to Athos curiously.

“Where is everyone?”

“Paid off by Rochefort probably,” Athos said. “He won’t have wanted too many prying eyes nearby – damn it!” This last outburst was accompanied by an abrupt deceleration and Porthos thought at first they’d got a puncture, only to realise that Athos was in fact slowing down as they approached the first living soul they’d seen out here since leaving the fort.

An elderly gentleman leading a weary looking horse was walking down the road towards them, and Athos brought the jeep to a stop and looked at Porthos. “Have you got any money on you?”

Porthos nodded, and at Athos’ prompting brought out everything he had in his bag. Athos leaned out of the jeep and proceeded to engage in a considerably protracted and incomprehensible discussion with the man, which to Porthos’ consternation resulted in the money being handed over, to apparent satisfaction on all sides.

“Why did you give him all our money?” Porthos asked, as Athos started the jeep up again without offering explanation.

“Oh, sorry, do you not speak Spanish?” Athos asked, and Porthos shook his head mutely. About to translate, Athos checked himself and stared at him in astonishment. “You came out here to – without – how were you going to - ?” He seemed to give up trying to form a coherent sentence and just sighed. 

“If Rochefort’s men – well, Anne’s men now I suppose – come this way looking for us, he’ll tip us off before selling us out to them,” Athos explained, turning off the track a little further on and bumping over rough ground towards a timber shack that Porthos had missed at first, nestled against the treeline.

“Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just pay him not to sell us out?” Porthos enquired. Athos turned off the engine and gave him a tight smile.

“You didn’t have enough money on you for that.”

“Where are we?” Porthos jumped out after him, looking round in surprise.

“Logging camp. It’ll be dark soon, I don’t much fancy trying to negotiate these roads at night. Now, let’s see what Providence has given us – oh yes, thank you God.” Athos lifted a cover in the back of the jeep and revealed a crate of wine and box of provisions. “I don’t know who he was, but in honour of this little lot, I shall hope his headache wasn’t too bad when he came round,” Athos declared magnanimously, lifting out the wine and leaving Porthos to follow him with the food.

It was dark inside the cabin, but dry and blessedly cool. Porthos set the food down on the table and dumped both his bag and the kit bag he’d found in the jeep next to it. “We’re staying the night here?” he checked. There was a bed in the corner, and he prodded dubiously at the blanket, wary of wildlife.

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “Tomorrow we’ll make our way into town by the back roads, hopefully avoid Louis altogether. But we should be safe here for a while. Which means,” he said, taking a deep breath, “that you can finally tell me what the everliving fuck you think you’re doing here.”

Porthos’ jaw dropped. “Excuse me?” 

“What the hell was Aramis thinking, sending you in like that? You’re not trained, you don’t even speak the local language, and they sent you in alone?” Athos continued, as if Porthos hadn’t spoken. “No plan, no back up, barely any weapons, Jesus Christ Porthos you could have been killed! It’s a miracle you weren’t! How could you let them use you like that?”

Porthos lost his temper. “Look. They didn’t fucking send me, okay? I volunteered. In fact I had to bloody convince them to let me try, and it weren’t easy. And yes, okay, it was a bit touch and go at times, but I did it didn’t I? I got you out Athos. I have followed you to the ends of the earth, and rescued you from an ‘orrible little cell and a mad bastard who wanted to feed you to the crocodiles, and I would think that the least you could do is say fucking thank you!”

By now just inches apart, they stared at each other in a heavy and silent tension, both breathing hard. Porthos noted dimly that Athos’ hands were shaking, and it suddenly hit him what Athos had been through. Half-starved and dehydrated, kept chained to the wall in a sweltering cell for months on end, Athos had nevertheless still been the one to get them both through the taxing ordeal of escape, then had driven them all the way out here on top of everything else. 

He must have been operating on pure adrenaline, and Porthos suspected he was close to a shattering crash. No wonder his nerves were frayed, and it was finally sinking in that behind all Athos’ unreasonable fury had been an unexpectedly intense concern for Porthos’ own safety.

The fight went out of Porthos, and he opened his arms with a sigh. “Come here,” he said quietly, and ignoring Athos’ look of bewildered hope, folded him into a hug. To Porthos’ relief, Athos put up no resistance and almost crumpled into his arms, the anger draining out of him just as quickly. 

“Thank you,” Athos said in a shaking voice, face buried against Porthos’ neck. Porthos shook his head, stroking Athos’ hair and holding him close.

“Shhh,” he said. “It’s okay. Don’t be daft.”

For a long moment they just stood there holding onto each other, gradually coming to terms with the fact that they seemed to have made it; that they’d escaped their pursuers, that they were still alive.

Eventually Athos moved back, looking embarrassed and a little shame-faced.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. I just – I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” Porthos asked, wishing Athos was still in his arms, but regretfully letting him pull away.

“Why you would risk your life for me like that,” Athos said simply.

Porthos looked at him, saw that Athos was genuinely confused, and sighed inwardly. He’d rather been hoping that it would all be self-evident by now, but apparently not.

“Don’t you?” he said gently, moving back into Athos’ personal space, and tilting Athos’ chin up a little to look into his eyes. Athos shook his head, but he didn’t move away and Porthos gave him a rueful smile, wondering if he was about to screw everything up forever. 

“This is why,” he breathed, and leaned in to kiss Athos softly on the mouth. 

"Porthos?" Athos breathed his name wonderingly, searching his face for confirmation that this unexpected development was sincere. His fingers traced the line of Porthos' jaw, and Porthos captured them in his hand and kissed Athos' knuckles, nodding quietly in answer to Athos' unspoken question. He kissed him again, just a light press of lips, feeling the way Athos caught his breath.

"Is this okay?" Porthos murmured. Athos nodded shakily and Porthos gathered him back into his arms, his heart leaping when Athos mirrored the gesture, wrapping his own arms around Porthos and leaning into him. The kiss that followed was a lot more intimate and for all that it was still slow and gentle, conveyed a depth of feeling that left them both breathless.

Porthos gradually became aware that Athos was by now trembling with the effort of staying upright, and felt guilty.

"God, what am I thinking, laying all this on you now, you should be resting," Porthos apologised, but Athos wouldn't let him pull away.

"It's fine. I'm fine. Thanks to you," he whispered, and Porthos smiled and kissed him again. 

"We could still do this sitting down though," he offered, and Athos gave a quiet laugh. 

"No arguments from me."

Porthos cackled. "That's a first then." They settled onto a bench and for a while just sat there leaning against each other, regaining a little of their strength whilst unconsciously listening for sounds of pursuit from outside. 

Nobody came to disturb them, and eventually they felt capable of exploring their surroundings. There was a well at the back of the cabin, and as darkness descended over the jungle they both took a much-needed wash. 

The cool water came as a soothing relief, particularly to Athos, who kept apologising for the filthy state he was in until Porthos upended an entire bucket of water over his head to shut him up.

Spluttering and laughing, Athos ended up sitting on the wooden veranda watching Porthos draw up another bucket. Porthos threw himself down beside him and dipped his hands into the water, slowly starting to wash Athos' back. 

"You don't have to do that you know," Athos murmured, but his head was drooping, and the motion of Porthos' hands against his skin was making him pleasantly drowsy.

"Shhh. Let me do this." Porthos leaned over and pressed a kiss between Athos' shoulderblades, making him smile. 

"I should return the favour," Athos said sleepily. 

"I'll hold you to that," Porthos grinned. "But let's wait till you're feeling stronger eh? There's a lot of me to cover." He pulled Athos back to lie in his arms, and kissed him. 

The last glimmerings of light were fading from the sky, and large moths were starting to circle the lamp they'd brought out, hurtling at the glass shade with a muted clink every few seconds. 

"Let's go back in," Porthos suggested. "Before something bigger decides to make a meal of us. And at least one of those bottles of wine has got my name on it."

They retreated inside, and once Porthos had made a fingertip search of the bedding to ensure nothing untoward was lurking in it, they settled into the bed together with some food and a bottle of the wine.

Seeing Athos was on the verge of exhaustion and too tired for conversation Porthos talked quietly of home, telling him about the progress he’d made and the things that had happened since they’d last seen each other.

“It seems funny,” he mused after a while. “Talking about paint colours and insulation when there’s monkeys and jaguars and who knows what hooting and grunting outside.”

“I thought that was just your stomach,” Athos remarked sleepily, and Porthos snorted with laughter, elbowing him indignantly.

“Feels like a world away though,” Porthos said.

“It is.” Athos turned slightly where he was lying so he could look up at Porthos. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” Porthos offered generously, feeling warm and sleepy and well-disposed towards the world in general.

“Promise me I’m not dreaming this?” Athos whispered.

Surprised, Porthos wrapped his arms around him. “It’s real. It’s all real, I swear,” he promised, kissing Athos on the forehead. Athos gave a rather shaky sigh of relief.

“I thought about you, so much,” he confessed in a low voice. 

“Yeah?” Porthos smiled at him, pleased by this unlooked-for confirmation that Athos had actually had some feelings of his own towards him.

Athos nodded. “All the time. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“It must have been hellish in that place,” Porthos said commiseratingly. “I can’t imagine what you went through.”

“The worst part was not knowing if each day would be my last,” Athos sighed. “To be honest I have no idea why Rochefort kept me alive as long as he did. I think he just liked having me there to gloat over. I’d been a thorn in his side for some time, and to have me as his captive – he used to come down occasionally and crow about it. At least it broke the monotony I suppose.”

“Well I for one am glad he kept you around for me to bust out” said Porthos feelingly. “Although I suppose if I’d waited a day this Louis might have let you go anyway.”

Athos shook his head. “I don’t think so. You saw how they came after us. He’d have had no reason to feed unnecessary prisoners, and he’d have known I’d have been as determined to stop him as Rochefort. I suspect he’d just have executed me out of hand. No, I think if you’d been a day later, you’d have been one day too late.”

Porthos shuddered at the thought of this, and kissed Athos roughly on the side of the head. “Still. We’re safe now,” he said thankfully.

“Are we? I’m not so sure,” said Athos. “We still have to get back, and there are only so many roads into town. Louis and Anne could easily have them all watched.”

“Do you think they’ll bother?” Porthos asked in surprise. “Surely they’ll be busy consolidating their hold on Rochefort’s men, won’t they?”

“I hope you’re right,” Athos said, stifling a yawn. “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

“Get some sleep,” Porthos told him, settling them both more comfortably and turning out the lamp. “We can worry about tomorrow when it comes.”

–

Porthos woke the next morning to find Athos still fast asleep and nestled against his side. He smiled down at him fondly, enjoying the moment of peace. Having come so far he refused to credit the possibility they might not make good their escape, but he knew Athos’ warning wasn’t to be taken lightly. A search of the jeep the day before had yielded no weapons, which meant whatever trouble was yet to come, they would be facing it unarmed.

Beside him Athos stirred and Porthos stroked a possessive hand over his shoulder. Athos blinked up at him, initial confusion melting into a smile that doubled Porthos’ resolve to get them to safety. He’d harboured a nagging anxiety that Athos, having had time to rest and reflect and come down from the heightened emotional state of their escape, might have changed his mind about things. 

Porthos took the opportunity to consolidate matters by kissing him good morning, and Athos wound his arms around Porthos’ waist and settled there contentedly. 

“What time is it?” Athos murmured.

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Porthos laughed. “Fairly early I think.”

“We should make a start,” Athos said, showing no inclination to move whatsoever.

“Probably.” Porthos wriggled further down beside him and nuzzled kisses into his straggly beard.

Athos pushed him off, half-laughing. “God what I wouldn’t give for a shave,” he sighed. “I must look a fright.”

“You look perfect,” Porthos insisted. 

“Then you have very low standards,” Athos teased, and Porthos shrugged.

“You’re alive,” he pointed out. “After that, everything else is pretty much a bonus.”

Athos squinted at him. “I’m trying to work out if that’s a compliment or an insult,” he mused, and Porthos snickered.

“Compliment, definitely. Do I look daft? Don’t answer that.” He sat up and yawned. “Matey boy didn’t come back, did he, who you paid off. Is that a good sign, do you think?”

“At least it means we’re not considered important enough to be chased all over the jungle,” Athos conceded. “The safest thing would really be for us to to keep going the way we’re headed and take the logging tracks all the way to the border. Except we’ve got less than half a tank of fuel left, and no way of getting any more. I think trying to get back into town is still the best option. Did you say the others were there?”

Porthos nodded. “God knows what they’ll be thinking by now when I didn’t come back last night. Probably that I’m dead.” He suddenly looked worried. “Shit, I hope they don’t leave. I’ve not got any tickets or passport or anything with me. If they decide I’ve had it and fuck off home, we’re stuffed.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Athos reassured him. “Trust me, border control will be the least of our worries.”

Having made a quick breakfast they set out once more, heading back the way they’d come for a couple of miles before Athos turned off onto yet another narrow track that he said would circle around the small town and bring them in from the west instead. To Porthos’ relief this route wasn’t quite as steep, but every now and then a yawning drop would open up to the side of the jeep, and he quickly learned to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.

Athos at least seemed to have a passing familiarity with the route, and negotiated hairpin bends and rockslides without turning a hair. Porthos concentrated on maintaining a stony pokerface, whilst internally yelling with horror every time it seemed inevitable they were about to plunge hundreds of feet down a cliff.

Eventually they regained the thicker jungle of the valley floor, and Athos finally relaxed enough to give the unusually silent Porthos a sideways glance to see how he was bearing up. 

“Piece of cake,” Athos murmured, and Porthos gave him a tight smile.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Can’t imagine why you didn’t want to do it at night.”

“It’s only really a problem if you meet someone coming the other way,” Athos told him, and Porthos swallowed. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to him, and he was glad Athos hadn’t mentioned it before. It had been alarming enough negotiating the road going forwards; being forced to reverse would have been nightmarish. 

Back on flat ground, their spirits rose as the next few miles passed without incident. As they finally turned off the narrow track onto what passed for a main road, Porthos was just starting to think their worries had been unfounded when a minute later they rounded a corner to be faced with a roadblock.

“Shit,” Athos muttered under his breath. It was a hasty looking affair, just two trucks blocking the road with a couple of armed men standing in front and Athos looked back the way they’d come, calculating the odds of getting away with a sharp turn and escaping back up the vertiginous logging track. They’d be able to go faster than the trucks, assuming he could keep them on the road.

Almost before the thought was fully formed, a Land Rover pulled out of a clump of trees behind them and blocked the way back. They were trapped.

Exchanging apprehensive looks Athos and Porthos got slowly out of the jeep, placing their hands on their heads as they were quickly surrounded by armed men.

Not recognising any of them and trusting they wouldn't necessarily know him by sight, Athos tried to feign innocent confusion, protesting their treatment indignantly until one of them hit him painfully in the small of the back with a rifle stock to shut him up. The same man who'd hit him then grabbed Athos' arm and pushed up his sleeve, revealing the bruised and broken skin where the iron shackle had chafed for months. 

Athos gave Porthos an apologetic look. "Worth a try," he murmured.

"To be fair, neither of us exactly blend in round here," Porthos replied with a tight smile. 

There followed a certain amount of debate amongst their captors, and Porthos looked to Athos for a translation. 

"They're arguing over whether to take us back alive or just shoot us here," Athos said quietly. "It seems their orders weren't terribly clear on that part."

Porthos made a face. "Wish I hadn't asked," he muttered.

Opinion seemed to be trending towards executing them there and then as they had their wrists tied tightly behind them, and were marched over to stand in front of a tree away from the vehicles. 

"Don't we at least get a last request?" Porthos complained, hiding a sick feeling of fear under a mask of bravado. Athos gave him a fleeting smile.

"Thinking it would be a good time to take up smoking?"

"Well it ain't going to be what kills me at this rate, is it?"

As the gunmen took up positions, the sound of an approaching engine could suddenly be heard, to the clear consternation of all those concerned. Guns were circumspectly lowered and Athos and Porthos were shielded from sight by a line of men standing between them and the road. 

A military-looking vehicle appeared at some speed around the corner, and rather than driving straight past came to a halt a few feet away with several men spilling out of it, considerably more heavily armed than their captors.

"Local police," Athos breathed. "Could be a shakedown - I'm guessing Rochefort will have kept them well paid off. If they've heard there's been a change in control they'll be looking to make sure the payments continue."

"Police?" echoed Porthos hopefully. "Won't they help us though?" 

Athos looked dubious. "Round here, they can be worse than the private guards. Less disciplined and more open to bribery. They're unlikely to care about what happens to us. Although - this lot seem unusually keen." 

The man in charge was demanding to see everyone's papers, and with a certain amount of protesting the members of the would-be execution squad each offered up various forms of identification. 

Attention then moved onto Athos and Porthos. When it became apparent they were tied up, a whole new argument broke out. 

"They're trying to claim we were caught thieving," Athos murmured. He tried to interject, and was promptly told in no uncertain terms to shut up by the policeman in charge. It did however have the effect of regaining his attention, and he demanded again to see their passports and visas.

"We don't have anything," Athos admitted. 

Further furious argument followed, which at one point looked like turning into a pitched battle until their captors reluctantly gave in and surrendered them to the custody of the police. Athos and Porthos were unceremoniously bundled into the back of the truck and the doors slammed on them. 

Bumping uncomfortably over the rough ground the truck turned round and sped off back the way it had come. It was dark in the back and smelt thickly of diesel. Sliding around on the metal floor, Athos and Porthos managed to brace themselves against one side and sat back to back, fumbling with each other’s bonds until they finally managed to untie each other.

"Have we just gone from the frying pan into the fire?" Porthos asked cautiously as they leaned against each other, massaging their wrists in some relief. 

"Possibly," Athos sighed. "Still, on the plus side we're not dead yet."

"I don't want to end my days in a South American jail," Porthos said dolefully. "They'll let us explain, right?"

"One would hope," Athos said grimly. "Although I wouldn't guarantee it. No official papers and no money for bribes - it could be months before we even get a trial." Porthos groaned miserably, and Athos hung his head. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me."

Porthos nudged him and shuffled closer. "Nah. If I had to, I'd do it all again. I'm glad I'm here with you."

Athos looked up at him, a shadowy figure in the dim light. "Me too," he whispered.

Porthos felt for his hand, and squeezed it. "We're not done yet," he promised. "Where there's life there's hope, right?"

In answer, Athos leaned over and kissed him. Porthos kissed him back, and for a moment nothing else mattered as they clung to each other and shut out the world in a passionate embrace. 

They were finally jolted apart by the truck coming to a sudden halt and they tensed, waiting to see what the latest development was. There was no noise outside to suggest they'd reached the town, and as the rear door was pulled open Porthos saw that they were still surrounded by jungle. 

The man who'd arrested them gestured vigorously with his rifle, and Porthos sighed.

"Alright, alright, keep your hair on," he muttered, clambering to his feet and jumping down to road, blinking in the bright sunlight after the dark interior of the van. He was conscious of Athos jumping down beside him, but most of his attention was taken up by a second truck parked nearby, and the figure leaning casually against it. 

Athos had seen him too, and was standing there with his mouth hanging open. "Oh, you bastard."

D'Artagnan grinned at them. "Now what kind of a welcome's that?" He pushed off from the bonnet of the truck and came over, smiling broadly. 

"We thought we'd had it." Athos gave an exasperated laugh, and they hugged each other. "You can get shot round here for impersonating police officers you know," he added severely, as their erstwhile arresting officers cheerfully stripped off all official looking identification and chucked it along with their weapons into the back of the van before accepting a large wad of cash from d'Artagnan. They piled back into the cab and drove off towards the town, waving casually from the window as they went.

"Are you complaining?" d'Artagnan smirked. He slapped Porthos on the back. "Nice work," he said quietly, with a nod towards Athos, and Porthos gave him a bewildered smile.

"That was all a set up?" he asked, still trying to reconcile this abrupt switch in their fortunes.

"Good, weren't they?" d'Artagnan asked. "Did they scare you?" he winked, and Porthos glowered at him.

"How did you know where we'd be?" Athos asked.

"We didn't. Aramis is watching the road in from the south," d’Artagnan explained. "We figured you'd have to come along one of the two. Which reminds me, I'd better give him a call." He pulled out his phone and waved them towards the second truck. "There's an airstrip about twenty miles away. We've got a plane waiting. Aramis will join us there."

The rest of the trip passed in a blur, Porthos sandwiched between Athos and d’Artagnan in the front of the truck as they sped towards the remote airfield. D'Artagnan's driving was considerably more alarming than Athos' and Porthos more than once had to resist the urge to beg him to keep his eyes on the road. 

Despite the apparent odds they arrived in one piece, and Porthos saw with relief that d'Artagnan had been telling the truth about the plane. It looked small and flimsy but it represented escape from here, and as long as d'Artagnan wasn't planning on flying it himself, Porthos would take it.

Twenty minutes later a jeep arrived in a cloud of dust and Aramis jumped out, full of smiles.

"Athos! Good to see you in one piece. Porthos my friend, I genuinely didn't think you could pull it off."

Athos frowned at him. "In that case I should punch you for letting him try."

Aramis laughed. "I wouldn't, you might hurt yourself. You look like a stiff breeze could blow you over right now. Didn't they feed you?"

"I could still kick your arse," Athos declared, but he was smiling, and the two men embraced warmly. 

Porthos watched them silently, feeling a little left out of the easy rapport that Athos had with both his colleagues. It felt unfair too, that of everyone he'd been the one Athos had yelled at for attempting his rescue. But as they all turned towards the plane, Athos hung back and fell into step beside him, and slid his hand discreetly into Porthos'.

"We made it," he whispered. "And it's all thanks to you."

–

By that evening they were safely ensconced in a hotel outside La Paz awaiting a morning flight to Miami. Porthos had tried to rest but found he couldn't sleep, pacing his room instead and staring out at the city below as the lights starting twinkling on in the gathering dusk. 

He wanted company, but Athos had disappeared to bed as soon as they'd arrived, pleading exhaustion, and he felt too awkward to seek out the others. He could have gone to sit in the bar, but while Aramis had reunited him with his passport and travel documents Porthos still didn't have any money on him, and had been too embarrassed to ask.

He was just considering ordering room service when there came a quiet knock on his door. Opening it curiously, he found Athos leaning against the frame.

"Hey." Athos half-smiled, looking almost shy, and Porthos gaped at him. Athos had not only shaved but somehow also contrived to have a haircut, and was neater and looked more handsome than Porthos could ever remember seeing him before.

"Hey." Porthos let Athos in with a smile of welcome. The fresh clothes and careful grooming couldn't disguise the shadows under his eyes or the bruises on his skin, and Porthos felt like he wanted to just gather Athos into his arms and never let him go. "You're looking better," was all he said, and Athos nodded.

"Marginally more human, at least." 

They looked at each other carefully, as if neither quite knew what to say next. Out there in the jungle it had been easy, the fight or flight impulses throwing them together with no time for awkwardness, but now they were back in civilisation things suddenly felt unexpectedly stilted.

"How are you feeling?" Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged. "Fine, I guess."

Porthos frowned at him. "Honestly? Not sure I would be, after what you went through."

"I've taken worse," Athos said dismissively, and Porthos snorted.

"Course you have." He smirked. "Tough guy, huh?"

Athos conceded a smile. "Would you prefer it if I had a tearful breakdown?"

"If it helped." Porthos stepped closer, and was glad when Athos didn't move away. "You've been through hell."

"And now I'm safe. Thanks to you." Athos ran a considering hand down Porthos' chest. "However can I thank you?" he murmured.

Porthos gave in to the urge he'd been suppressing since Athos entered the room, and put his arms around him. "I'd hate you to think you owed me," he said quietly. Athos smiled.

"And if I was just harbouring an entirely justified desire to demonstrate my gratitude?" he suggested.

Porthos' smile widened. "Then that would surely only be appropriate," he agreed. 

They kissed each other, slowly at first, then with increasing heat until Porthos was dizzy with desire.

"I want you," he breathed, pressing kisses to Athos' lips, his jaw, his throat.

"I'm all yours," Athos promised, and Porthos steered them over to the bed, where they fell in an undignified heap together, laughing and still kissing.

"Sure you're up to it?" Porthos asked, torn between wanting Athos so desperately and the guilty knowledge that what he probably really needed was a month's bed rest.

"Let's find out." Athos wrapped his arms around Porthos' neck and drew him down on top of him. "It's been a while though," he added. "I might have forgotten how."

Porthos laughed. "I'm sure you'll soon pick it up again." He hesitated, as something occurred to him. "Oh, I er - I haven't got any condoms though."

Athos blushed slightly. "I have."

Porthos raised a delighted eyebrow. "Oh I see, like that is it? Come here looking for a shag did we?"

"Possibly." Athos went a deeper shade of red, but he didn't look away and Porthos kissed him. 

"Then it would be remiss of me not to oblige."

They undressed each other slowly, taking pleasure from the gradual shedding of each garment and stopping to kiss each newly exposed plane of skin. They’d already seen each other naked the night before, but while still sensual in its own way, that had been more about the practicalities of washing. Tonight they deliberately took their time, enjoying the fact that nothing had to be rushed.

By the time they were naked in the bed together, they were both rock hard and eager for more. Porthos had wondered how much experience Athos had actually had with men, but he displayed no hesitation or lack of confidence, and agreed willingly to let Porthos make love to him.

Taking him at his word, Porthos found the next couple of hours to be the most wonderful of his life. The sex was as unhurried as the rest, and they explored each other with a quiet passion that culminated in Athos sprawled face down in the soft sheets, Porthos moving inside him with a long, slow stroke that had them both beyond words. 

With Athos propped slightly along a pillow, Porthos had one arm around his waist and was working him gently in time with the rolling thrusts of his hips. Athos’ cock was hot and hard and slippery in his hand, and Porthos closed his eyes and pressed endless kisses to the sweat-damp skin of his back and shoulder. 

Occasionally Athos would twist round enough for them to kiss each other on the mouth, snatched moments that would promptly break their rhythm and make them collapse against each other, panting and laughing.

Eventually, both too far gone to hold on any longer, they spurred each other to a drawn-out and well deserved climax, Athos spilling helplessly over Porthos’ fingers with a quiet moan seconds before Porthos found his own completion, driving one last time into Athos’ pliant body, his vision blurring with the intensity of his orgasm.

Afterwards he pulled Athos round into his arms, stomach still smeared with his own come, and held him close while they both tried to regain the ability to breathe properly.

“Was that alright?” Porthos murmured, once he could speak again. For him it had been mind-blowing, and Athos had certainly appeared to enjoy it, but it had been their first time together and he couldn’t help having to ask.

Athos looked up at him with a faintly amused smile. “I’d say it was passable, yes,” he said, then rested his head on Porthos’ shoulder with a quiet laugh. “That was incredible you idiot.”

Porthos laughed, relieved. “Just checking.” He hugged Athos tighter for a second, and kissed him.

“You know,” Athos mused. “There was a point earlier today, when it looked like we’d both had it, and all I could think was – if I die without actually getting to sleep with you, I am going to be so fucking pissed off.”

Porthos burst out laughing. “I was thinking something similar meself,” he admitted, and Athos snickered quietly against his chest. 

“I’m glad it wasn’t just me.”

“Worth the wait?” Porthos asked, and Athos smiled. 

“Definitely. Although I’m hoping we don’t have to go quite so long before round two.”

Porthos winked at him. “Well there’s still two condoms left in that packet you bought. Be a shame to waste ‘em.”

–

The journey home felt like it took forever, including a detour to pick up the cat from Constance, but when they finally arrived Porthos was mildly surprised to realise it had barely been a week since he'd left. 

They settled into a heady few days of relaxation, spending a large percentage of it in bed together. To their relief, life as a couple came easily and without the need for too much adjustment - at least so Porthos thought, until the morning Athos walked into the kitchen with an overnight bag over his shoulder.

Porthos froze. "Where the bloody hell do you think you're going?"

"There's something I need to do," Athos said impassively, setting the bag on the table and not quite meeting his eyes.

"Oh no. No way. You are in no fit state to go gallivanting off somewhere yet," Porthos declared. "I won't let you."

"It should only take a couple of days, I promise," said Athos. "I'm not even leaving the country." 

"Well what's so important?" Porthos asked. 

Athos looked shifty. "I can't tell you. Not yet. Just - trust me, okay?"

Porthos came to stand in front of him, forcing Athos to meet his gaze. "That would be a damn sight easier if you'd tell me what you were up to," Porthos said unhappily. 

"I'll tell you when I come back. I promise." Athos picked up his bag again and Porthos stared at him helplessly.

"What - you're going now? Fuck's sake Athos, we're supposed to be together now, you can't just piss off when the mood takes you without saying anything!"

"I'm sorry. I'll try not to be too long." Athos hung his head and turned to go and Porthos bit his lip, suddenly horribly afraid of the consequences of parting on bad terms. 

"Athos."

Athos turned back warily, and Porthos gave him a rueful, tight-lipped smile. "I love you."

Athos dropped his bag on the floor and came back, putting his arms around Porthos and kissing him. "I love you too," he breathed. "I'm coming back, Porthos. I promise."

Porthos hugged him tighter, embarrassed at how transparent his fears had been. "And you'll tell me then? Everything?"

"I promise." 

"And after that - no more secrets, okay?"

Athos nodded acceptance. "No more secrets." 

"Look after yourself, yeah?" Porthos said hoarsely. Athos nodded.

"You too." 

They held each other tightly for a while longer, then kissed each other lingeringly goodbye. 

\--

The light was fading out of the day as the front door closed on a nondescript flat in east London. The flat's tenant shed his jacket with a sigh and headed automatically to the fridge for a drink - then froze. Something wasn't right. He hadn't heard anything, but somehow the flat didn't feel empty.

"Who's there?" he demanded, reaching into his pocket for the flick-knife he habitually carried.

The door to the bedroom creaked slowly open, and to his shock a strange man stood there holding a gun on him. "I'm looking for Charon."

Charon stared, calculating options. "Who wants him?" he hedged, whilst recognising that if the man was already standing in his flat, the chances of bluffing his way out of this were minimal.

"My name is Athos. You don't know me, but - we're going to have a little chat."

\--

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" 

Porthos was standing in the doorway, hands on hips with a face like thunder, having just watched Athos emerge from a taxi.

"A couple of days, you said. It's been nearly two fucking weeks. That is not my interpretation of a couple of days!"

"No. Sorry." Athos winced, looking shamefaced. "It didn't take that long, but I needed to hang around for a bit and make sure what I'd done had had the desired effect."

"And you couldn't have called me?" Porthos demanded, following Athos through to the kitchen, feeling sick with relief that he was okay but too angry to stop shouting. "One phonecall, fuck Athos, even a text! Just to say you were going to be a bit longer?"

"I know. I'm sorry." Athos winced. "Forgive me?"

Porthos glared at him, then poked him in the chest with a stern finger. "You, need to be trained."

Athos hid a smile. "Do I?" 

"Yes." 

Athos looked at him cautiously. "So - am I forgiven?"

Porthos let out a heavy breath, then snorted. "S'pose." 

They eyed each other for a moment, then Porthos pulled Athos into his arms and kissed him hard. "Stupid bastard," he muttered.

"Sorry," Athos sighed. "You're right, I was thoughtless. I'm too used to only having myself to worry about."

"So what was it all about?" Porthos prompted. "You were going to tell me, remember? Or is that going to be one more broken promise?"

Athos pulled a newspaper out of his bag and dropped it on the table. Porthos looked at it in surprise. 

"The Brixton Advertiser? What, do I look homesick or something?"

"Page six," Athos said neutrally. "Next to the courts column. They seem to have managed to keep it out of the nationals, took me ages to find that mention."

Frowning at him, Porthos picked up the paper and turned to the right page, scanning the newsprint in confusion until a name caught his eye. His name. Startled, he went back to the start of the short item and read it aloud.

"Remanded into custody on Tuesday last for the manslaughter of Mr G. Armstrong, 71, was Mr R. Charon, 28, of Miracle Court, Brixton. It is understood that Charon voluntarily confessed to the crime in a fit of remorse, having previously maintained the death of Armstrong, sustained last year during a robbery, had been at the hands of one Isaac du Vallon, who to date has never been apprehended for the crime. All outstanding warrants and charges against du Vallon have now been dropped pending the trial of Charon, who was remanded to await trial without bail."

Porthos slowly lowered the paper and stared at Athos in shock. "You did this?" 

"Yes." Athos was watching him warily, his arms folded across his chest.

"How?" 

Athos shrugged. "It wasn't that hard to find him. I just explained to him exactly how short his life expectancy was going to be if he didn't confess."

"Oh, just like that?" Porthos said disbelievingly.

"I promise I didn't lay a finger on him," said Athos quietly. "But I can be very convincing." 

Porthos stared at him, and Athos fidgeted a little. "Are you angry?"

"Angry?" Porthos was startled. "Why would I be angry?"

"You might have felt I was interfering."

Porthos snorted. "Well, you are. Doesn't mean I'm angry though." He looked up, realising something. "That's why you wouldn't tell me what you were up to!"

Athos conceded the point with a sheepish nod, and Porthos shook his head. "I don't know what to say," he managed eventually. "Why?"

"You saved me," Athos explained. "I just wanted to return the favour." He gave Porthos a tentative smile. "You're a free man now."

Porthos came over and looked down at him. "Trying to get rid of me?"

"Not a chance," Athos breathed, and Porthos smiled, folding Athos into his arms. 

"Good. Because my place is here now. With you." 

They kissed each other heatedly, full of relief, then Porthos pulled back a little and looked speculative.

"You know, I've been thinking," he said. "I never really got it before, why you do what you do. I mean - it's not like you need the money. And all those times you'd come back all battered and wrung out, I thought - I don't know why you keep going back. I figured maybe it was some weird guilt thing. But now - I think I understand. Having been through it, like. There were times I was shit-scared out there and it all felt like a bit of a blur, but overall? Christ, what a rush. And that's why you keep doing it, right? You just - you enjoy it."

Athos ventured a guilty smile. "I guess I do."

"So - I've been thinking," Porthos continued, taking a deep breath. "I could join you. The three of you, I mean."

Athos looked startled. "You're not serious?"

"Why not? I could do it. I reckon I could be good at it. Or is it an ex-army-boys' club only?" Porthos asked, sounding prickly.

"No, no, not at all, d'Artagnan was never in the army," Athos conceded. "And I'm not disputing you'd be good at it. You are good, you've already proved that. I just - I hate the idea of putting you in danger."

"What, so I'm supposed to just sit at home and wait for you like a good little wife?" Porthos demanded. "Waiting and wondering if maybe this time'll be the time you don't come home? I can't do that any more Athos. Not now. This last couple've weeks have proved that to me."

"If you're only suggesting this because of me...?"

Porthos shook his head. "I'm not. Not only that, anyway. I know it was hairy at times out there, but - I've never felt so alive. So excited. I want to do this, I want in."

Athos hesitated. "The others would need to agree to it."

"Yeah, well, one thing I have noticed is that they tend to take their cues from you," Porthos said, then looked up sharply. "Hang on, was that a yes?"

"You're serious about this?"

"Yes! Definitely." Porthos nodded urgently, and Athos sighed. 

"Then - I suppose so. Why not?"

"Really?" Porthos stared at him in surprise. "I thought you'd take a lot more convincing, to be honest."

Athos half-smiled. "Why? You've already proved your ability. You're a resourceful man, Porthos. And there's no one I'd rather have at my back."

Porthos kissed him delightedly. "Talking of having me at your back...?" he ventured and Athos laughed. 

"Trust you to make that filthy." Athos slipped his arms around Porthos' neck and Porthos pinned him back against the wall, kissing him hard, then groping him suggestively. 

"What? You've just cleared my name. Maybe I just want to show my appreciation in the traditional manner."

Athos kissed him back, smiling. "Then in that, at least, you'll have no argument from me."

\--


End file.
